Expo '86
by Vcorrigan
Summary: Enter the psyche of society's base, add in numerous illegal substances, and you've got the expo of the century. Because neither can admit their faults, their feelings, the one thing that matters may be lost through their projections onto others. Tweek/Craig
1. 1 0 Consequence

1.0 Consequence of Famed Gods

**con·se·quence** _n._

1. Something that logically or naturally follows from an action or condition  
**2. The relation of a result to its cause.**  
3. A logical conclusion or inference.  
4. Importance in rank or position: _scientists of consequence_.  
5. Significance; importance: an issue of consequence. 

Someone we loved is gone, someone the community adored—and quite possibly feared out of concern—is no longer amongst us. It's funny, really, how people that would otherwise shun you grieve so easily, as if in death to satisfy and confess sins of speaking behind your back in life, they must act buddy-buddy and friendly. As if they'd known you their whole lives; coincidence is, these people have know the deceased his whole life, they just never liked the fact his heart beat rhythmically and healthily.

Sitting here in the back, it reminds me how life really isn't as precious as people make it. Oh no, God gave you life—no, evolution over thousands of years of being a boneless fish did that, maybe an ameba looking thing with a nucleus, and that's about it. This "God" isn't great and powerful, trust me on this, I speak entirely out of personal encounter.

But now I'm on a tangent that could last decades. The deceased, he's the one I loved. Misunderstood, he came to me…no, maybe _I_ went to _him_. We got along, it was like fitting the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle in, though I've yet to figure out if he was the puzzle piece or the whole. But remorse, that I don't feel—a pang of guilt, sure, but that's imbred in our senses when someone dies. I was attached, more than I ever have been in my existence, but I'm not going to cry, no. Looking to the pale, tender flesh of my wrist the ribbon reminds me: Do not open until Christmas. It's my weakness you know, not the suicidal tendencies, the pleasure of pain and the sight of blood (which I do enjoy immensely, but with the life I lead it's nothing new), I mean the soft flesh there at the wrist. Press between the veins, in that little groove between bone, and ultimate pain is guaranteed, worse than being flayed. Pressure points, I can't stand them.

He couldn't either.

But I wasn't the only one that was emotional toward the limp body in the casket. No, among these people in black, make-up smeared and running, the falsities and apologies, one is left to be broken. No, not the family, they'll get over it, they never liked my love anyway. This one—he's sitting in the corner, face buried in hands clutched so tightly blood is pouring from flesh cut by nails, the knuckles are bright white—he bawls louder than the rest. It's a desperate wail of despair, knowing his friend, the one he knew to be his soulmate, is gone. As I watch him shake his head, mousy hair flying, I know—give or take a second or two—that in three weeks, two days, six hours, forty-seven minutes, and thirteen seconds he'll be dead with a bullet in his head, found in Terryall Creek, by his own hand. Oh, see, there's those suicidal tendencies again.

The one that should be here isn't, I don't need to look around to know. After all, he is the reason the casket is set on display. Now he's in the place he fears the most, in complete solitude. The irony of it is the bastard killed the one person that promised he'd never be alone again. It was fear. He didn't want change, he didn't want a safeguard, and what better way to insure you'll never be safe than kill it off? But I'm not angry with him, he's a good boy despite being a little on the whack side. I mean, I love him too, because they were opposites in every way possible. I loved him in a sadistic way, the way that allowed me to do the things I did.

Still do.

Yeah, I'll admit I had my part to play in this little escapade. Okay, maybe _I'm_ the reason my love is dead, and the other fallen into himself. No one will ever know it, because the two that ever suspected were the ones mentioned. Hah, I cover my tracks all too well.

My love seems to sense his personal apocalypse—me—in the cathedral, despite being dead. If his spirit hadn't been broken before dying, I'm sure he'd be pimp-slapping me out of here right now, but since he isn't, well, I'm going to see him. For closure.

You know, it's amazing how they repaired a face that got shot, the jaw that was fragmented and shards of bone missing. And of course, the illusion of eyes, that I know aren't under those lids. One was shot out, the other rotted. But the hairstyle, that I can't condone; I guess it's what you've got to do when you're working with a corpse with half a face, huh?

I walk back through the crowds, my part in a little town's disaster done, the story of two boys, confused and exhausted, ended. I sigh and watch as those nearest me shudder, a tremour racking their bodies. They glance around to find the source of the internal chill, but they won't find it.

They never do.

So ends the Expo, or maybe, it's just beginning.

* * *

A/n: Nice intro, huh? x3 I know, it _doesn't_ make sense, and it's not supposed to just yet. But as everything gets set up, you'll understand why it's so important to open this way. Trust me. ;D 

This is the shortest you're going to get in this, but to elaborate further would crumble the plot. All chapters will be written in a _different _format, third-omiscent, past-tense, yadda yadda. Perspective changes entirely. This is the first, and most likey last time you'll be in this character's head, so enjoy as it last.

Any readers from my previous fic should be warned: this isn't random floo-floo fluffy crap, and it won't be. **Ever**. If you like it like that, I might consider not reading, unless you're in the mood for psychological analysis. Then I do hope you give it a shot. Warnings and whatnot will be up later.


	2. 1 1 Confession

**Warnings**: Violence, crude language, adult situations, sexual refferences, slash.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own the characters, settings, nor the title "Expo '86", which rightfully goes to Death Cab For Cutie, who inspired this.

* * *

1.1 Confession of a Rattled Addict 

**con·fes·sion **_n._

1. The act or process of confessing.  
2. Something confessed, especially disclosure of one's sins to a priest for absolution.  
3. A written or oral statement acknowledging guilt, made by one who has been accused or charged with an offense.  
4. An avowal of belief in the doctrines of a particular faith; a creed.  
5. A church or group of worshipers adhering to a specific creed. 

I suppose it's best to start at the beginning, correct? However, that is impossible, there never is a beginning, like there never is an end. Some argue the beginning is conception, others foreplay, others still pregnancy. But what about the acts before that, the delicate process of chemical turmoil? Socialism, heredity? It just proves the point again: there is no beginning. So how does one start a tale? Pick a point of significance and go from there? But how do they know the ending? "The End" never is the true stop, it's just the final words of fiction before imagination takes its toll. Death, happiness, togetherness, tyranny, dedication, all possible endings. But we were talking about the beginning, right? Hm. I suppose, for the sake of argument, the fourth grade will be our beginning.

---

Morning promised blinding white rays of sun, strong in the mountain air, although without the factories the O-zone was still living a prosperous life above the town of South Park. It was a Wednesday, another of the long autumn days flared with the coming season of death. Trees billowed in the wind, ruddy leaves snapping from thin fibers holding them aloft to drift in the violent torrent. Although a true beauty, the Rocky Mountains seeming to be in a natural flame, it was all a distant reminder of the harsh snow that would soon level the ground, kill many, leaving terror in its wake.

"It's all some conspiracy thought up by Mother Earth, by _Him_," a peculiar blonde announced, glaring out if his bedroom window toward the sky, swirling with fluffy clouds. "That's why the day feels old, although it's morning and just began, and—ah!"

He whipped around, messy hair obscuring his vision as the door creaked open, knee whacking the window seat hard enough for the blonde to register there would be a bruise. An exasperated sigh sounded from the doorway where his mother stood, mousy hair framing her young face.

"Well good morning, try to be more careful, Iestyn dear," she said kindly, noticing as he rubbed his knee with a frown. It alluded him as to why, throughout her profession as a mother, Eavan switched between use of his middle and true name. Beyond that, he'd always wondered why he'd have a Welsh name, until it dawned on him that there weren't many English names beginning with "I", and his comical father decided the initials "TIT" would be humourous for them all.

It wasn't.

"Mom, Jesus Christ, my name is Tweek!" he squeaked angrily, eyes narrowing to slits. With a sigh his mother crossed her arms under her breast, giving a slight nod before padding gently across the carpet. Silently Tweek thanked her for remembering the vibrations of a person's steps on the second floor was enough to send him into hysterics. Seconds later he regretted it, as Eavan bent down, tugging loosely on a stray lock of dirty-blonde hair, tsking.

"I think you need a haircut, honey," she said sweetly, pushing the mess back from his face, revealing his forehead, something she hadn't seen in years. "Your doctor says you consider it a stress reliever."

He sprang backwards from her touch, yanking clumps of his hair, a tremor shaking through his body. "What? No! Why would he say that?"

A smile playing across ruby-coloured lips she gently pried her son's hands from his hair, clasping them between her own in front of his stomach. Eavan noted they were shaking, though couldn't fathom why; she'd have to talk to the doctor about it. "He says it because it's true, sweetheart, as you just proved by trying to take handfuls of it out."

"But I'll still pull if it's short, and it'll hurt more! Gyah!"

His mother kissed his forehead as he twitched, brow furrowing as a chill ran through him. Heat receding, he knew she'd taken a step back and let go of his hands. Looking up he found er back at the door, watching him intently, with such a motherly look it made his mouth feel like cotton, an uneasy feeling spread from his stomach, but it was a good uneasy, referred to as the 'fuzzies'.

"Get ready, Tweek, we'll stop to get breakfast on the way to the doctor's."

As his mother closed the door softly, he let out a strangled breath, pulling on his hair in irritation. The said doctor was actually a psychologist that strongly believed in medication, no matter the age. The list of medication he was 'supposedly' on was too long, and got longer with each visit. It had been Mr. Macky's idea to have him looked at professionally, and his father's to return him on weekly visits.

He didn't understand why.

Watching the floor dejectedly he shuffled to the closet and threw it open, not bothering to check for gremlins and gnomes. There was nothing wrong with him, everything was chemically balanced, so why did he have to see the doctor? It was a question Tweek asked himself almost daily, but he'd yet to be answered.

Struggling from his pajamas the twitching boy changed quickly, pulling a jade shirt over his head that sported a cat on the front, the sleeves long enough to cover his hands. He'd long since abandoned wearing button-ups to the doctor, realizing all too well not being able to dress properly just increased the notion of craziness. Stuffing his orange-socked feet into Vans—the variety you didn't have to tie—Tweek cautiously edged down the stairs, checking each of them incase the carpentry was faulty.

Eavan waited at the end of the stairs, car keys twirling precariously on her index finger. At spotting her tremouring son she gave a sweet smile and extended a hand that he took without hesitation, letting half of his genes lead him out into the crisp autumn air.

It was an interesting thing, the trust children put into their mothers', he considered while his mother strapped him into the front seat. The utter dependency upon mothers ran in all species, but humans delved a bit deeper. Sure, the normal things were needed like shelter, food, water, protectiveness, but among that were comfort, advice, the knowledge the child wasn't alone, and several other things.

Tweek was no different in this matter. He'd always felt closer to his Mum, never having to doubt the fact she loved him endlessly and would do anything for him. His father, though, continuously joked about things that no father should like slavery; it was a blunt slap to the face and low shot to respect. Which was why the next question was spawned.

"Dad won't be there, will he?"

Eavan glanced to her son, disappointment evident in her gaze. She was well aware of Tweek's thoughts about Richard and the doctors, but couldn't help the worry of that distrust. Noticing he was staring, mouth slightly apart, waiting the confirmation she sighed.

"No, dear, he won't be there."

He gave a nod, head cocked to the side, seeming satisfied. "Can we go to _Dunkin Donuts_ for breakfast?"

"You know what Doctor Rizzo said about drinking coffee before appointments, dear," Eavan said with a deep breath, switching to the fast lane. The only _inconvenience_ about having a mentally disturbed son was the doctor's office was located in Denver, however it gave more choice of food to stop at, which Tweek enjoyed immensely.

"But I can't go on without the coffee! Gyah! It's too much, lemme out!" the blonde wailed at the news, a fit of twitching beginning as he pulled on the door handle, securely locked.

"Tweek honey, calm down."

Immediately sensing the stern words he froze, glancing up at her with watery eyes. She was his idol (after all, she could do laundry and make toast), so the scolding words were a slap to the face. With a mumbled, "Yes Mom," he began cracking is knuckles in a way very much akin to Butters'.

"Don't be like that, Tweek," Eavan said apologetically. "I'm not the doctor, and I don't want to go against his wishes. I promise right after your appointment we'll get you some coffee."

He perked at that, grinning happily. They stopped at the first _Dunkin Donuts_ they came across, which happened to have a _Baskin Robbins_ as well, to which the blonde happily named "Baskin Donuts" to go along with the multitude of "Ke Taco Huts" they passed (_KFC, Taco Bell, Pizza Hut_). Tweek ate happily, making small noises of pleasure through the mouthfuls of powdered sugar and blackberry goo that oozed from the donut centres. Eavan smiled to herself as she pulled into the doctor's office, her son sipping on a chocolate malt happily unaware of where they were at, or the sugar that painted his chin ghostly white.

"Honey, wipe your mouth and finish that quickly," she said with a light laugh, flipping the ignition off. Swiping the back of his sleeve on his mouth Tweek stared at the white smear from the sugar and shrugged before gulping down the rest of the malt.

To say the least, it wasn't a pleasant idea. Eavan shook her head, flustered as she led her yowling son into the waiting area, screaming about frostbite in the cerebrum and frontal lobe. She left him in a plush chair to sign in, several other youngsters staring at him wide-eyed, most likely fearing the untamed blonde. He bit his tongue, tasting copper, to keep from shouting absurdities, but he knew the children had already passed judgement.

_I'm not crazy!_ He yelled to himself, tears pricking his eyes. Why was the world so keen on proving him mentally impaired? Hadn't these people ever eaten ice cream too fast, experienced a brain-freeze? It's not like he _was_ crazy. Charles Manson was crazy, and because of him his parents didn't permit the blonde to listen to the _White Album_ in fear he'd go off on a homicidal rampage and carve "Z"s into his friends' heads. Hat was pretty out-there too, killing twenty-three babies in "self defense", yet he was adored.

Before he could say something to increase the level of nervous around him, a small girl flounced over, long black curls flying behind her. Only inches from his knees she stopped and twirled in place, grinning, her two front teeth missing.

"Hiya Tweek," she sung, voice entirely too sweet and carefree. But that's why he liked little Jenny, despite what people thought of her and the baffled, disgusted looks she received (like now, one woman's nose had curled and she threw a glance of distaste in their direction), she remained cheerful, like nothing would ever get her down. And nothing seemed to.

"Hi Jenny," he replied around his fingers, gnawing on his nails.

"I sawed you at school an' waved, why didn't you talk to me?" she asked, pulling herself up into a chair, folding her legs beneath her. She seemed more curious than offended and disheartened, peaking Tweek's nervousness further.

"Didn't see you," he mumbled, watching his shoes. The truth was none of his friends took too kindly to kindergartners, and being seen with any of them—Kyle being the exception with his younger brother, Ike—was pure murder. That was his fault, caring too much about what other people perceived him as; Tweek hated it.

"But you looked straight at me!" she retaliated with a small frown, staring at his trembling hands. Tweek ground his teeth together in an attempt to calm himself, a much better solution then "finding the centre" as Doctor Norris, his old psychologist had said.

"Why are you shakin'? Are you cold?"

"What? No, Jesus Christ! I'm fine," he persisted, glancing sideways at the girl.

"'kay." She a smile she smoothed her skirt. "Hey Tweek?"

"What?" He held his breath, knowing the subject that Jenny was leading to. It as something she'd yet to drop in the months of knowing her, and her timing was predictable, _always_ after smoothing her skirts.

"Would you eva marry me?"

Twitching under the scrutiny of several adults and children his age, Tweek shook his head rapidly, throwing his hands over his eyes. It wasn't the question that bothered him, it was the sickened looks the children threw, the adoration and admiration from the adults. It was _too much pressure_ holding up to society's standards. Reputations meant _everything_.

"No," he finally moaned, wondering where his mother had went.

"Even if I love yoooou?"

"Love? Gyah! Love is just a chemical reaction by the brain engraved to increase the population! It's not real! It's not _real_!"

Jenny remained quiet for some time before busting into giggles. "But Tom Cruise said chemical weactions aren't weal!"

"Tom Cruise is a dullard with no sense of reality or direction; as he so notably said, he's a jerk."

"What if I was older?"

Tweek twitched, lowering his hands to look at her. In actuality if she was older—if they _both_ were—he'd happily get married to her. Two crazies makes an antidote right?

_But I'm not crazy! Gyah!_

"N—no, I still wouldn't marry you! Jesus Christ!"

"Jenny sweetie, we've got to see the doctor now." They both turned to a curly haired woman, smiling at them both, easily recognizable as Ms. Thermine, Jenny's mother. Her eyes were rimmed in dark circles from sleep deprivation, but the laugh lines at he corners of those amber orbs were still quite distinguishable. She was a good mother, kind, gentle, and one of the few adults Tweek could stand because she held no false accusations.

The girl sighed as she slid from her chair, smoothing out her skirts in pure habit. Satisfied she leaned over, hands placed on his knees and kissed Tweek's cheek with a sound like _myah_! "Bye Tweek," Jenny said with a smile, letting her mother drag her toward a door placed on the opposite side of the room where an assistant was waiting, seeming displeased by the display.

"What a cute girl," Eavan said from behind Tweek, startling him enough to nearly tumble from the chair. Twitching he wiped away the wetness on his cheek and mumbled praised to the Lord about cooties. His mother took a seat besides him, hiding her close-lipped grin, and held out paper and a box of crayons. "It might be a while, why don't you draw, honey?"

Knowing well the doctors would make him "artistically display his emotions" Tweek slid to the floor, legs stretched out in a "v" before him. He grabbed a sheet of paper and crayons, messily slopping down whatever came to mind. He'd long since abandoned the idea of actually doing art for the doctors, they would find something wrong with it anyway, so why not just give them what they wanted, that coloured version of craziness? Besides such a fact, his drawings were personal, and he didn't want that small part of his psyche becoming warped.

Throwing down a black crayon he held up the piece in shaking hands for his mom to see, waiting for evaluation. In the centre was drawn a large coffee cup with a rainbow on it, surrounding it things he disliked, coloured over in black—gnomes, phones, goblins, medication, cameras, bats, and Eric Cartman.

Eavan tsked as she saw the ladder shaped as a large circle with squinted eyes, the word "Ay!" written beside the plump boy. Though she knew the horror stories accompanied by the Cartman child and couldn't fully blame her son for adding him, though as a parent couldn't condone it.

"Honey, that's not very nice. What would Eric say knowing you did that?"

Tweek's eyes widened to impossible lengths, a tremour wracking his slim frame. "Oh God! He'll kick me right in the balls. Oh Jesus! Don't tell him Mom, don't tell anyone!"

"Let me see the picture then." As soon as the words crossed her lips, the paper was shoved roughly into her hands. Folding it neatly she placed it into her oversized purse, something Richard had bought for Christmas, and Eavan only used to seem grateful despite hating the thing. "Why don't you draw something else? What about a flower? A rose?"

The nervous blonde gave a short nod before grabbing the black crayon again and drew an oval in the centre of the paper, with two other ovals a tiny bit smaller blossoming from the sides of the first. Two half-ovals were drawn in the back, connecting the two side petals before two straight lines were drawn from the centre one. Eavan choked back a laugh at the representation, seeing an absorbed tampon instead of a rose.

Tweek didn't notice, though, as he grasped the red crayon and roughly coloured, ignoring the fact the colouring wasn't within the lines. It was something his mother hated about the psychological drawings verse his normal ones, the disorganized, cluttered feel. But as she watched, Eavan became increasingly interested. The child picked up the pink and coloured the top left corners of each petal, the colour fading out into the red the lower he got. Satisfied Tweek added a touch of yellow to the pink and coloured the stem solid green, before moving onto the background, done in hard-blue with an uncoloured beam of light from the top left.

It was about the time he was writing in his usual tilted, round script "A ROSE", the door opened into the office and an assistant called out:

"Tweek Tweak."

Hurriedly cramming colouring utensils back into the box, Tweek stood, handing the crayon pack to his mother before walking slowly to the door. Eavan gave back the crayons and extra paper to the woman behind the glass window at the front desk. The blonde had always wondered why the phone-ladies were put behind glass, as if the patients would rebel and go for them.

The assistant closed the door behind them and threw a fake smile, full of false cheer, though her body language gave off irritation, as if she wasn't paid twenty-three dollars an hour to walk patients to the correct door. Glancing up at the stiff woman Tweek edged closer to his mother, bumping against her hip. Instinctually a hand went to tangle amiss his blonde locks as they opened the doctor's door and entered.

The first thing that hits you about Dr. Rizzo's office is the smell, a medicated scent covered with vanilla out-lit plugs, sage incense, and pine. Second you notice the awards, certificates, and diplomas hung on every inch of wall not covered by chock-full bookcases. Thirdly the carpet, a soft mix of blue, pink, aqua, green, and spots of white, giving the illusion the sky had puked all over the room. Forth the beanbag chairs in one corner, littered with stuffed toys of all varieties. Then the soft plush chairs in front of the cherry-wood desk, and finally the man behind it.

Dr. E. Micraine Rizzo was an older man with a gentlemen's air about him. Black hair, flecked with silver at the temples was thinning, and indefinitely balding. Behind black-framed glasses grey eyes sparkled with intelligence, the kind bought at an Ivy League university. Over the black button-down and black slacks he wore a typical white doctor's coat, reminding everyone of his stature.

Upon entrance he glanced up, smiling sincerely. "Ah, Tweek! My favourite blondie, sit down, sit down! And Eavan, you look so very lovely today, how's Richard?" Before an answer could be given his attention was brought back to the child. "So how are you, Tweek?"

The blonde trudged to one of the chairs and sat down, twitching and shaking. The artwork in his hands shuddered violently. "I'm fi—fine."

"Good, good, let's see that drawing of yours, shall we?" Taking it from the boy Dr. Rizzo studied it, _hmm_ing to himself as he made scribbled notes about the piece on a yellow pad of paper. Finally he looked up after several minutes of awkward silence and offered a smile. "I suppose this is when you want to know what I wrote?" Tweek gave a curt nod as the drawing was placed in his view.

"Let's begin with something simple then, the lining. See how it's slightly uneven, shaky if you will? And since I know you haven't had any caffeine to rack your nerves, it signifies anxiety, nervousness, and lack of precision. But notice how it's more wobbly where the lines should be straight?" He tapped a side of the flower as indication, and slid his finger over the waxy picture to the lines of the stem. "Because of this, the meaning changes mildly, and it comes to signify that something most everyone else would understand and accept, you have trouble over, or fear. It's something you possibly want to understand as everyone else, but you're unsure of doing so.

"Now the colour on the rose. Red is usually a colour associated with such a flower, but your use signifies more. See how you coloured at an upward diagonal?" As Tweek shook his head, Dr. Rizzo drew a "/" on a blank sheet of paper. Seeing understanding dawn on the boy he continued. "This shows mounting emotion of some kind. Mixed with the colour red, it would be growing affection and—"

"Why not anger?" Tweek squeaked, brows furrowing.

"It's coloured faintly, not with pressure so it's a softer shade of red. Besides that, you coloured over in pink, which is indefinitely recognized as a bashful passion and adoration. And over that you've yellow, which I'm sure you know as the colour of happiness. However, with such a combination as this it's a sure sign of cowardice. Perhaps you're afraid to acknowledge this affection thoroughly, or admit to it; it could be a number of things.

"Now to the background. It's coloured in blue, the colour of calmness, but you coloured over it in black. This signifies unsteadiness, unbalance. You wish to achieve the calm depicted, but so much is clouding it. The colouring is also disheveled, unorganized, which adds more emphasis on the chaos. But here—" he tapped his ball point pen on the beam of light in the image "—this is what is creating all of this mental torture. This is what you want, what can create the calmness. Being above the flower, this surely shows you put this person, thing, above yourself and would do nearly anything for it. Now is the process of elimination on who, or what, the beam of light is. Do you mind if I keep this, for your record?"

Tweek shook his head vigourously, brows furrowing as the muscle around his left eye convulsed. Despite the man's ethical values, Tweek had to admit, Dr. Rizzo was brilliant in every sense of the word. Even he didn't know himself so well, until such things were pointed out to him. Now only to figure out who the beam of light was…

"Mrs. Tweak, would you excuse us?" Dr. Rizzo's voice asked softly, though the threat was there. Eavan prickled at the tone, narrowing her eyes slightly. She knew his capabilities and genius, but still wasn't comfortable leaving her son in his hands; brainwashing the blonde would be so easy, considering his paranoia as it was.

"I really don't believe—"

"Eavan, we've talked about this before, the results _will not_ be the same with you in the room. I won't argue with your belief system, each to his or her own, but you _are_ paying for quality service."

She wasn't worried about the Doctor doing unnecessary things with her son—after all, Ethan was married and had four grown children of his own—she was more worried about his persuasiveness, and Tweek's submission to adults. But the Doctor had a point, she _was_ paying for these little adventures. Sighing she kissed her son's cheek and left the room. As soon as Eavan was gone, Dr. Rizzo beamed at Tweek.

"So Tweek, tell me about your friends, how are they doing?"

The blonde twitched as he rung on his hands painfully. "My friends? Good I—I guess. I dunno, how should I know? I can't read minds, man! Gyah! Yheh!"

"No, I meant how are they _to_ you?"

"They treat me well."

Dr. Rizzo tapped his pen impatiently and sighed. "No, Tweek, what's your opinion on them?"

"Oh!" He rung his hands tighter, not noticing as Dr. Rizzo took down notes of this behaviour. "I have two best friends, not because I don't like the other kids theotherkidsdon'tlikeme," he added quickly, the words slurring together. "Clyde's one of 'em, he's nice n' stuff, though can be a bit whiny." Realizing what he just said his eyes widened. "Oh God, don't tell him I said that! Jesus Christ, don't tell him!"

Dr. Rizzo patted one of Tweek's hands affectionately. "Don't worry, this is confidential."

He seemed little satisfied but continued anyway. "He's really nice though! He protects me n' stuff—"

"From what?"

"The other kids, they pick on me a lot."

"Why?"

"Well I twitch, and am paranoid, and drink coffee, and am gone every Wednesday from school! Why not?" the blonde huffed.

"Go on."

"Anyway, he is protective, but not as much as Craig. He's my other best friend, and kicks the living crap outta anyone that messes with me."

"Wait, wait," Ethan's brows furrowed as he gazed over the frames of hi glasses. "Craig Nommel, the boy that sent you to the hospital last year? He's your friend?"

Not liking the skeptical tone, Tweek narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, he didn't want to fight then, the other kids made us. But he's cool, he's, he's—"

"Your anti-drug, your comfort zone?"

"I guess."

Noticing Tweek's discomfort, he let all issues surrounding such a topic drop; he didn't want to send the boy into a nervous breakdown. So he switched the subject to something the blonde, in theory, wouldn't mind talking about.

"So Tweek, tell me about the gnomes."

As he expected the child bolted upright, eyes narrowing in thoughtfulness. "They stole my underwear last night! Gyah, my last pair! I really liked them too," he pouted, before perking up once more. "In my closet the gremlins live, and they got fur all over everything, I can't hang clothes without them getting fuzzy! Yheh! And I can't put things under my bed without them getting gnawed on! It's killer."

"Is that so?"

"Mm! And there's an epidemic, I swear, in South Park. The bat population is growing, they're everywhere, man! It's freaking me out?"

Dr. Rizzo glanced up at that. "I haven't noticed."

"How could you not? _They're everywhere!_"

Scribbling a few notes down the Doctor gave a long sigh before folding his neatly manicured hands on the desk. Eavan, in no way, shape, or form would like what he was about to do, but there was really nothing he _could_ do. "Tweek, what would you say if I took you off a few of the medications you're on now and replace them?"

"What?"

He slid his glasses off and rubbed he bridge of his nose. "From what I've heard, it seem the medication isn't doing its job. I want to fix that, you understand?"

"Yes."

"And the way to do that is to prescribe something else."

"But there's nothing wrong with me," Tweek croaked under his breath, face turned to the floor. Why didn't anyone believe him?

Feeling slight pity to this boy Dr. Rizzo sighed, grabbing a form to send to radiology. "Tell you what, I'll order one of these new brain wave test, that'll know for sure if you've got Schizophrenia by testing the auditory stimuli. What do you say about that?"

What could he say? The Doctor would have it done anyway; the results would come back the way the department wanted. He'd be put on more medication, and all feeling would be lost. He nodded, a sigh trickling from his quivering lips.

And he hated himself more then.

---

School was, unfortunately, no better than waiting in a doctor's office to speak with someone that was more in it for the money dished out than your health. The balding teacher with the hat puppet on his hand grumbled irritably as he walked into the classroom, his bondage buddy on a studded leash behind him. Anyone out of South Park might think this behaviour was abnormal and Mr. Garrison should be fired on sight, but the community didn't particularly mind. After all, they'd all watched the Whore-Off, and the particularly gruesome sight of Mr. Slave sodomizing himself with Paris Hilton.

"Well hello children, are any of you bastards missing?" Mr. Garrison asked with fake cheer, taking the attendance sheet from his desk. Why take roll when the kids were willing to rat out their friends?"

"Bertha's sick," Annie called out from the back.

"So little Red got her _own_ 'little red', okay," the teacher said to himself nonchalantly. "Anyone else?"

"Tw—Tweek ain't here, sir," Butters' wavering voice said, a pitch higher than normal. Piercing green eyes fell on the Stotch boy, fierce enough to make him yip.

Mr. Garrison eyed Craig warily, receiving that say hard-edge glare Butters' had. It was no secret Craig went to extremes to keep the jittery blonde safe, nor the fact he could be a violent child. No, not really violent, more of the coy bully that would punch in the stomach if you looked at him wrong, this on a good day. Luckily he was the adult and didn't have to take shit from the punk.

"Alright Craig, where's Tweek?"

The boy in question went still, considering as he pulled on a puffball swinging from an earflap on his hat. It was always _his_ fault if the blonde went missing, _his_ responsibility. But he knew he'd made the reputation himself, and hid his smile that that.

"I don't know, Mr. Garrison."

"What do you mean, 'I don't know'? He's your best friend."

Craig snorted, air exhaling through his nose to create a detesting sound. Token and Jason giggled silently to themselves in the back of the room, most likely laughing at some joke they'd made. Sometimes the Nommel boy just couldn't stand them.

"I mean, I've got no idea where he is. He never really tells me were he goes on Wednesdays."

"Aw, poor Craigy-Waigy's girlfriend doesn't confide in him. Hah!" a voice so recognizable called. Without looking and aiming the annoyed Nommel threw his math book toward Eric Cartman, smacking the fat child in the head.

"It's about time someone beamed him in the head," Mr. Garrison muttered to himself as he propped himself up on the desk, more interested in the boys than the math lesson.

"Ay! What was that for, you little pansy? AY! Did you just flip me off?" Eric bellowed, trying to sound viscous but only succeeding in whining.

Craig turned in his chair, smiling coyly at the fuming Cartman. He let his eyelids drift half closed, which on anyone else might suggest something sexual, but coupled with the black hair falling from the hat, gave the boy a cocky air. A hand appeared lazily on the desk, and slowly curled to flash his middle finger once more. "Yeah, I did."

"I'll kick your little sissy ass!"

"Eric, watch your language!" Mr. Garrison shouted, tolerence being etched away.

"Nyeeeh! He flipped me off!"

"Craig, you keep your finger to yourself!" Seeming satisfied with Eric's mumbled curses, Mr. Garrison fled to the blackboard and picked up a new piece of chalk. "Alright, turn to page thirty-one in your text books and let's begin."

Realizing he'd thrown his book at Cartman Craig groaned, turning to try and barter, only to have it shoved roughly into his hands. The boisterous Jew shot him a smile before stuffing his nose into his book and scrawled out answers, despite any instructions being given. Craig sighed, flipping passed a few pages until he reached the lesson.

Out of that clique, Kyle was the only one he could really stand. Despite the insults they shared, it was out of good humour than hate. Sure, he'd beat up Kyle for not joining the metrosexual phase, but genuinely felt a pang of guilt afterwards. Stan he wanted to choke; besides being mortal rivals, the Marsh child was a dick (though thinking about it now, it could be because Token was going out with his ex, Wendy, and Token was apart of his clique). Cartman…did anyone have to elaborate their hate for that racist, neo-Nazi? And Kenny, he was the playboy of the century, with a crude sense of humour and nothing to account for. He did have a sincere side, but _something_ about Kenny just irked Craig.

Mr. Garrison's harsh voice broke his thoughts. "Craig Nommel! What's the area of the square in problem four?"

He hurriedly looked at the figure, the sides seven inches in length. What was the equation? Length times width, or all sides added together? Taking a stab he went with the last, and quickly added up the sides. All eyes were on him, waiting for the answer.

"Uh…twenty-eight?"

"That's the answer to perimeter, but I wanted _area_!"

"Jesus Christ," Mr. Slave commented as he filed his nails.

"Okay, how about someone who isn't a complete retard? Marcy?"

"Forty-nine."

"Good, good!" Mr. Garrison shot him a dirty look. "Pay attention next time and maybe you'll get it right."

Anger. It was something you were familiar with if you were in Mr. Garrison's class. He didn't care who you were, he'd make a garb at you despite. You could be sensitive and prone to crying, but the balding man wouldn't care. Fortunately, Craig was neither, but he still felt abused with such humiliation. Without realizing it both middle fingers were steadily pointing at the teacher. Mr. Garrison's face contorted with rage.

"_**Did you just flip me off you little bastard**!_"

Craig looked down at his hands, which disappeared under the desk a second later. "No."

"You better not—THERE! You _did it again_! You go down to Mr. Mackey's office and stay there until you learn some respect!"

Craig sighed as he gathered his things and threw his bag over a shoulder. This was nothing new to him, it seemed like every other day he was kicked out of the classroom. Eric sniggered under his breath as he passed, which earned a punch in the shoulder from Kyle. The Jew offered a sympathetic smile as he closed the door behind him and let his feet lead him to the counselor's office. There the twig-like man stood, arms crossed over his narrow chest, looking down at the boy with scrutiny.

"M'kay, Craig, I should've known it as you. Come in, come on."

As he was led into the office he knew all too well he sighed. Mr. Mackey took a seat behind his desk, littered with papers of all kinds, and clasped his hands together. Craig noticed a new poster almost at once, which promoted tolerance of sexuality. Mentally he wondered why they'd have such a thing in an elementary school, but considering his flaming homosexual teacher, he understood.

Mr. Mackey cleared his throat to gain the attention of the boy; it worked wonders. "Craig, now why can't you behave yourself?"

"I don't know."

"Well what did you do, m'kay?"

"I don't know."

Shifting through the papers the counselor sighed. "By what Mr. Garrison said over the phone, you double teamed him with the finger, m'kay. That's bad, m'kay, you can't be flippin' off your teachers, Craig."

To humour him Craig asked, "Why not?"

"'cause it's bad, m'kay! It shows disrespect; you don't want your parents lookin' bad, do you? Like they taught you no manners?" Craig shook his head. "M'kay, then you've gotta stop flippin' people the bird, m'kay?"

The delinquent looked uneasy then, as he tugged on the puffballs of his earflaps. "But I can't."

"And why not?"

"I can't stop being angry."

Mr. Mackey cocked his head at that. "So you flip people the bird 'cause you're angry?"

"Duh, no one does it for fun," Craig quipped, rolling his eyes. "But Mr. Garrison…just, I can't explain. And Cartman just pisses me off, damn assrammer."

"Watch your language! So you flipped off Eric too?"

"And threw a book at him, yeah."

"You _what_? Craig, that isn't acceptable! You can't go 'round throwing things at people, eventually you're gonna mess with the wrong person and get messed up! What in the world would possess you to throw a book at Eric?" Mr. Mackey asked in a wild fit.

"He made fun of Tweek!" Craig snapped as if it answered everything. Obviously, it did not.

"So? That doesn't excuse your actions!"

"So if someone made fun of Ms. Choksondik when she was alive you wouldn't have thrown a book at them?"

"That's different," Mr. Mackey said softly, taking a breath as he straightened his tie. He looked anywhere but the persistent child.

"How so?"

"Well, because…m'kay, well, it just is."

"_How so_?"

"Well m'kay, you see you and Tweek haven't—that is I would hope so…he's your best friend, not something else." Why were Nommels so stubborn? Could he _not_ drop it, or at least understand not to question the clammy adult before him?

"What do you mean 'something else'?"

Mr. Mackey placed his hands on the desk and stared back at those green eyes above his glasses. "You don't love Tweek, do you?"

He watched as understanding flashed across Craig's face and his mouth fell into an "o", before he licked his lips and recoiled. Nervousness became disgust, and then anger. The boy stood haughtily and flashed Mr. Mackey the finger as he clapped his hands together.

"Gross, I'm out." Luckily at that moment the recess bell rang, and Craig stalked out in a rush, slamming the door behind him, hard enough to rattle bookshelves. The counselor sighed and shook his head.

What a strange boy.

---

Slipping down the concrete stairs, Craig looked toward the sky. Grey clouds built in the distance, closing in on the Rocky's, beams of light breaking through to create a heavenly effect. It didn't take a meteorologist to know the strong scent of wet soil and the brisk, chilling wind promised rain. Flame-coloured leaves rained down on the dying grass, creating a natural plaything for the kids.

The raven-haired boy sighed as his unzipped jacket caught in the wind, billowing like a cape as he walked down the sidewalk, glancing around. Off in one corner the girls huddled together, laughing uproarously about something only a female mind would comprehend, Bebe pointing at a particular Jew-boy's rump behind his back every now and then, the laughing turning into girlish giggles. Damien, Mark Cotswalds, and several other boys ran around playing tag, trapping each other behind the plastic spring-elephants which lead to an all-out dash to "safe base". Token and Wendy sat side-by-side on the swings, hands laced together, sharing affectionate looks that were scorned by the Marsh boy, and made Craig want to vomit. Off on a bench by the "prison wall" Gregory, Pip, and Rebecca Cotswald were sharing a laugh of their own, most likely about some famous literary piece. The Cartman clique hide behind a few autumn bushes and a tree littering leaves onto them, playing some crude game called Bosnians vs. Americans. And there, by the jungle-gym was the man he was looking for.

Catching those brilliant blue eyes Craig grinned, and received a wave as he trotted over. Clyde laughed to himself as Craig threw down his bag and climbed up the metal bars, giving him a high-five.

"So how was Mr. Mackey this time?" the brunette asked, positioning himself on the top of the dome, smacking a few third-graders away.

"You know, same old same old—hey! Put the bag down, Tracie!" Craig snapped, looking down at a little copper-haired girl, her hair in pigtails. She glared up, hazel eyes narrowing as she stuck her tongue out and continued sorting through his bookbag. He glanced toward Clyde and held his hand out. "Lemme see your slingshot, dude."

"What? You can't be serious," Clyde gaped, shaking his head. "Nuh-uh, I'm not being apart of that."

Under his breath Craig muttered, "Pussy," before jumping the distance to the ground, startling the girl, but she ceased her searching. He put his hands on his hips. "Tracie, go talk to your friends."

"I'm lookin' for something, hold on, Jesus Christ," she mumbled, flipping him the finger. Craig rolled his eyes—stupid kid sister.

"What are you looking for?"

"Glitter pens."

"I don't _have_ any glitter pens! What, do I look like a girl to you? Go talk about boys or something and get outta my stuff."

Ignoring her elder brother she pulled out a sheet of paper, folded and crumbled, and commenced opening it. Craig watched, unamused over her shoulder, until he realized what it was. He made a dart for it, stuffing it into his back pocket, but it was too late. Tracie beamed up at Craig with a wicked smile.

"What was that?"

"I don't know."

"I think you doooo," she crooned, smiling sadistically. "It was a loooove letter to Red! How cute, Craigy's in loooove!"

"Shut up!"

"Craigy and Red, sittin' in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g! First comes—"

"_Shut up_!"

"—love, then comes—"

"**_Shut up_**!" he hollered, storming off, fist clenched, a slight pink tint colouring his cheeks, the song echoing behind him. It was something written long ago at the beginning of the year, and he'd yet to clean out his bag; he _didn't_ love Red! What an absurd accusation to make! It was hard to ignore the looks and giggles he received as he passed other children, and Tracie's voice only seemed to get louder.

It was then Cartman slid into his path of hate, a hellacious smile curving his lips, a hand to his chin in contemplation.

"Well, well, well, is our little Craigy in love with Red?"

"Leave me alone," he replied in deadly calm, his gaze unaffecting. At that moment, Eric saw only a humiliated bully, and not someone that would rip his testicles off at any second. Kyle seemed to notice the ladder, and stammered his disapproval to Cartman's actions to no avail.

"Won't Tweek be jealous? How's it going to work, you two-timing whore?"

Left with the choice of turning on his heel and throttling Tracie or continuing passed Eric into the school building, he took the last. However, Eric was very persistent in breaking Craig's nerves and grabbed him by the wrist as he went by, a foot out on the path. Craig went down at an angle instead of on his face (thankfully), but as pain lanced through his shoulder he snarled, rolling over onto his backside and glared so hatefully at Eric one would think the fat child would combust at any moment.

"Why don't you answer me, Craigy? We all know you're totally gay for Tweek."

Slowly Craig stood, brushing himself off in the process. It didn't take much to tower over Cartman, and in his increasing anger, it seemed like he could take on the world.

"I choose you."

"What?"

"After school, you and me, here on the playground. _I choose you_."

Eric smirked, crossing his arms in an I'm-better-than-you fashion. "Yeah, well alright! You and me, after school."

Satisfied Craig stalked off, thoughts whirring in his head. Why would he issue a challenge to Cartman? Why was Tracie such a conniving little bitch? Why wasn't Tweek in school? Where was his backpack?

The rest of the school day needed much concentrating to keep focused on Mr. Garrison's lessons. Throughout the classroom were whispered rumours about the fight that was going to go on after school. Excitement, the room radiated with it; it was like static. Throughout the American history lesson balls of paper kept smacking him in the head, most congratulating him on his choice of kids to beat up, others cheering him on.

One particular note was from Eric, with an image drawn crudely on it. It pictured a stick figure Tweek being sucked-off by a stick figure of himself, with semen staining his face. To the side was written, "I hear you like your coffee with cream," and was titled, "Cocksucker Craig."

He wadded it up as another paper smacked him in the head, this one with the distinctive, pointy writing of Clyde. "_So why're you fighting Cartman, again_?"

He scrawled, "_Because of this_," and threw it back, accompanied by the picture. He wrote a few notes about the Boston Tea Party before it was sent back with:

"_So you can fuck Tweek?_" written on the paper. Craig growled and wrote:

"_No you douchetard, he totally ruined my groove, bruised my ego_."

Clyde glanced to him a smirked before throwing the note back. "_Oh, I get it…so do you love Red_?"

"_NO_!"

"Boys, you'd better stop passing notes or I'll have to punish Mr. Slave!"

"Oh Jesus Christ!"

The notes immediately stopped, knowing what has happened last time with Bebe's note about Kyle's "sweet ass" and the lecture went on with no interruptions. The day ended with a flurry of shouting glee, chairs scraping the tile as the kids ran out into the playground, awaiting the excitement they'd built during Mr. Garrison's class. Craig was the last to leave, and conveniently was stopped.

"So what have you got to say for yourself, Craig?" Mr. Garrison asked as he put a leash on Mr. Slave.

Craig thought about what he was talking about as the whore's eyes pleaded with the raven-haired child to get it right. When it clicked Craig sighed, "I'm sorry for flipping you off."

"Oh good! Now why were you passing notes?"

"I'm going to fight Cartman," he answered after a long stretch of silence. Mr. Garrison smirked at that.

"Well it's about damn time. Good luck."

Amused Craig grabbed his things and left, walking down he empty halls, footsteps echoing in the cramped space. He stopped, looking around—no one was there, he could easily just walk out the front of the school and home without anyone realizing it until the next day. It was the logical choice, if his parents found out he'd been fighting again he'd get grounded for a month, maybe longer. Surveying the hall once more he zipped up his jacket and pulled down his hat before throwing open the front doors and walking into the wind, the voice in his mind shouting:

_Go back! Kill him! The bastard deserves nothing better than instant death. GO BACK!_

Of course he ignored this annoying little voice as he edged around the wall surrounding the back courtyard and playground so no one would catch sight of him, and darted across the road into the small grove of trees. So he wouldn't be riding the bus, at least it wasn't snowing! Eyeing the sky he noticed the clouds had taken on twisted shapes and darkened to a charcoal-purple, building higher and higher as they collected moisture. Give or take, it'd downpour in a few hours; at least then the pollen would be washed away.

Glancing ahead he saw the turn off to Stark's Pond. Taking the main road would cut off time getting home, but the bus would be coming this way soon, and he'd be found out. Cutting across Stark's Pond, the field beyond, and forest would take longer navigating, but it was definitely the safer route. Grumbling unintelligible curses he trotted down the dirt road to the glittering waters he knew all too well. Taking cover in the trees that led to the pond he listened, and heard the exhaust of the bus pass only seconds later. Smiling smugly he kicked at the dirt, scuffing his dirty brown sneakers in the process and continued trekking up the small hill that opened to the pond. Nearing the top he heard the faint sound of tittering humming, that seemed more electronic than human, but knew otherwise. He hurried his steps, and balked at the sight of a spiky-hared blonde sitting beside Stark's Pond, chin resting on his knees.

"Tweek?" he questioned curiously, drawing near. The boy startled, turning in a motion so quick he stumbled onto his knees, hands held out in a stopping motion.

"Oh my God, don't hurt and rape me! Don't kill me, please, Oh God, Jesus Christ! I…I have mace! Yeah, I'll mace you! Oh God!"

He smiled at the familiar paranoia, all anger that had been there before suddenly dispersing. He quietly walked up to Tweek, not fearing any sort of defense, knowing his friend well enough to know he'd never be exposed to mace.

"Tweekster, it's me."

The blonde looked up, lowering his twitching hands at the sight of Craig. He offered a shy smile, bouncing unsteadily. "Hi."

"What're you doing out here?" Craig asked as he knelt by Tweek, resting on the balls of his feet.

The boy glanced away, fiddling with the sleeves of his shirt. "Oh, I—I didn't want to be home. Dad's getting back from work and, I, just—gyah!"

As Tweek twitched convulsively, Craig placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, the action so subconscious it didn't register; it was like breathing by now. His brows knit together in distaste at the mention of Richard—he wasn't a bad man, he just had a cruel sense of humour that gave his son the impression of being scum and alien. He elaborated on Tweek's difference, made it seem like a horrible thing, when in truth it was what Craig cherished about his friend.

Instead of voicing his thoughts he asked, "So why weren't you in school?"

"Oh, I was at the doctors, think I might be getting sick, a cold, a fever, the flu, the black plague, yeah, that's it, the plague," he mumbled, continuing to look at the ground.

"Maybe it's just allergies."

"No, it's the plague, man! See, I'm beginning to get pocks of black puss, see?" He rolled up his sleeve, jabbing at a spot on his arm. Craig sorted.

"That's just a freckle."

"Maybe, or maybe I'm _dying_! Oh God!"

Craig grinned to himself, amused at how worked up Tweek could make himself. He stood, stretching down to touch his toes and yawned lazily. "You aren't dying, now come on, let's go home."

"I don't wanna go home!"

"I meant my home, retard," Craig said, rolling his eyes and offered a hand to Tweek. The blonde eyed it warily before letting his friend pull him to a stand.

"But what will your parents say?"

"They think I'm not social enough, and they love you anyway, so don't worry or I'll leave you for the wild animals."

He grasped Craig's hand tightly, a tremour shaking his lithe form as he squeaked, "Bats!" Fear coursed through the blonde's body as he darted glances around the trees and sky, looking for these supposed bats as Craig tugged him along the path to his house. Occasionally he'd let out a high-pierced scream or nervous sound, but Craig never disparaged him for it, instead would squeeze Tweek's hand and continue onward.

It was no surprise that Tweek hadn't noticed as they walked up the driveway of the Nommel's jade house until Craig threw open the door and called a customary, "Mom, I'm home! And Tweek's with me!"

A woman skipped out of the kitchen, blonde hair swaying around her shoulders as she wiped wet hands on a towel and greeted them with a smile, bending down to kiss her son's forehead and hug Tweek. Lydia was very sincere and quirky all around, but when angered, she could go off and throw one hellavu punch. Usually this only happened when Thomas, her husband, gave short quipped answers to something otherwise very important.

"Well hello Tweek! Will you be staying the night?" she asked, leading him into the kitchen for afternoon snacks, Craig smirking to himself behind.

"I—I don't know, I haven't asked."

"Oh, well then why don't you call your mom up and see?" Lydia asked cheerfully as she finished making sandwiches. "Craig, go get your sister and clean up some, honey."

"I'm not on speaking terms with her," he mumbled as he left the room. Tweek looked to the wood floor, counting panels as Lydia dawdled around, humming to herself as she placed the sandwiches on a plate and poured two glasses of chocolate milk. She was helplessly oblivious of things, but from what he'd seen being over, she was a very loving mother. Craig never really talked about his family much; he hadn't known the boy had a sister until he was over the first time when they were in second grade.

Seeing fuzzy green slippers slide into his vision he looked up at Lydia's smiling face. She held out the cordless phone to him. "Are you going to call, or would you like me to talk to your mom?"

He cringed away from the phone, shaking and stammered, "Y—you can."

She seemed little put off by his shaking as she patted his shoulder gently. "Alright, honey, why don't you go find Craig? I taped Red Racer if you'd like to watch it."

Tweek nodded hurriedly, shuffling out of the kitchen into the living room, where Craig was bounding down the stairs, his hat lopsided from the speed and gravity. Jumping the last few steps he jammed his hat back down over his messy black hair. He smirked at Tweek's incredible stillness, accompanied by a various twitches, as his mother placed the snacks on the coffee table and went back to her duties.

"Your mom taped Red Racer," Tweek said slowly, carefully inching toward the couch, the sandwiches very inviting.

"Kick ass," Craig replied as he plopped down, grabbing a PB and J sandwich from the plate and hit the play button. Tweek sat beside him, taking a sandwich with the crust cut off that he knew was his and hid his smile behind the food. It was amusing how Craig religiously worshipped the show, as if the apocalypse would rain down if he didn't watch Red Racer every day of the week. It might have been pathetic if it wasn't a quirk in Craig's character that set him apart from everyone else.

As the theme song played enthusiastically, Craig watching the screen without blinking, Tracie crept down the stairs and squealed at the sigh of the spiky-haired blonde. She bounced over with no time to sidestep as Craig's foot shot out, sending the little girl flipping through the air onto her rear. She glared daggers and flipped her brother off, who casually lifted a one-finger salute as well around his sandwich. Composing herself she beamed at Tweek, though the irritation flashed through her eyes.

"Hiya Tweek! Wanna come up to my room? I can put bows in your hair!" she said with a grin, climbing up onto the couch between the boys.

Twitching the blonde edged slowly away from the girl, clamping his eyes shut in the process. Tracie could play the innocent little angel, but under that disguise was a girl that would most likely be one hellavu dominatrix. Secretly Tweek liked to think she was a Hell spawn succubus.

"N—no thanks! Gyah!"

She pouted, blinking large, watery eyes. "Aw, come on! I can make you pretty like _Barbie_! Pleeeaaasee?"

With a grunt her brother smacked her in the head, hard enough to admit a tiny yelp. "Shut up and go away! We're watching TV."

"But Tweek wants to be pretty!" Tracie persisted, reminding the boy in question of a hissing cat.

"Does he look like a girl? No! Boys don't put bows in their hair, so _go away_. Jesus Christ, get your own friends, or go mutilate another _Barbie_ for fuck's sake." As she turned to get Tweek's opinion on the matter he growled and yelled, "Mom! Tracie's trying to turn Tweek into a girl!"

Lydia appeared in the doorway, hands on her hips sternly. "Tracie, you leave him alone! You haven't done your homework, so go do that, but don't bother the boys!"

As the girl slunk away grumbling obscenities under her breath Tweek let out a relieved sigh. Seeing his calming state Craig threw him a smug smile and shook his head. "You need to lean how to say _no_ dude."

"I did!"

"I mean firmly."

Before Tweek could shout an answer Lydia interrupted. "Your mom's going to be here in a few minutes, honey, she said it was perfectly fine if you stayed the night."

"Really?"

"Mm hmm."

"Sweet, I can show you my new guinea pig, Streak now," Craig said with a laugh as Tweek did a quick finger-dance. The blonde yipped joyously; it'd been months since he'd stayed over at anyone's house. The raven-haired boy flipped the TV off with a grin. "Come on, let's go upstairs."

"But your show!" Tweek gasped in shock. Since the first season of Red Racer began, Craig had yet to miss an episode, be it by watching on tape as soon as he got home from being out late, or rushing back in time to watch it on air. Craig shrugged as he downed his chocolate milk.

"We can watch it later, I think this is cause for celebration; let's play space men."

Tweek followed his friend up the stairs and into the room he knew very well, amazingly clean. It was no different than any other time of visiting, the deep blue covered bed shoved up against a royal blue wall. Against another wall his white desk was covered in an assortment of papers, books, doodles, and one corner was dedicated to a cage sporting two guinea pigs. Propped on a mantle were a few model cars and a F14 jet, along with a few pictures. One such picture was framed, featuring Clyde, Tweek, and Craig huddle in the snow, beaming at the camera. Tweek remembered the day well, their families had gone up to ski lodge and stayed four days for Christmas. The other photo featured them during the same trip, falling at an angle. Tweek smiled—he'd tripped in the snow and fallen, grabbing the nearest thing, which happened to be Craig. The picture was captured as the blonde grabbed Craig's coat, pulling him downward to the snow, while he windmilled his arms, for all good that did. It was indeed a Kodak moment.

"Catch," Craig said, pulling Tweek out of his thoughts as a fishbowl with a straw ducktaped to the side was thrown in his direction. The fidgeting boy caught it in jittering hands before it had a chance to smash on the floor, and mounted it on his shoulders, like the other boy had done with his. As they pulled on their "space suits" and changed shoes to rain boots the door opened as the cheerful Eavan walked in, carrying a bright green satchel in her hands.

"Well hello boys, going on a shuttle launch?" she asked, amused by the costumes, but was very familiar with them to know they weren't going to scuba dive.

"Yes Ms. Tweak," Craig answered, his voice echoing in the globe. "Wanna join us?"

"No thanks, Craig sweety, I've got to get home and finish making dinner or Richard won't be happy, but thanks for the offer," she replied kindly, smiling as Tweek took his bag, and set it on the floor.

"What'd Dad say?" he asked nervously, looking up at his mother.

"He thinks it does you good to visit your friends," Eavan said, hugging Tweek awkwardly, smacking her chin on the fish bowl. She stood and waved at Craig, throwing him another smile. "Well, have fun you two, try not to venture too far into outer space, alright?"

"'kay," they replied in unison as she left, and finished getting ready, grabbing a few essentials; a watergun, some rope, and paper in case they ran into any kindergarteners. They walked down the stairs, finally done changing, making gravity-defying noises with each step. Tracie glanced up from her homework assignment on the couch, giving them both skeptical stares as Lydia walked out from the kitchen with a walkie talkie in her hand.

"I'll call you boys when dinner is ready. Don't go too far, alright? And try not to get caught in the rain, okay?"

"Right, Mom, bye," Craig said hurriedly, grabbing the piece of technology and tossed it at Tweek. The blonde snatched it from the air, stalking after his friend out into the wind. The sky had grown increasingly darker, the breeze ever more brisk, giving everything a stagnant feel. Tweek twitched nervously at the thought of being struck by lightning, despite hearing no thunder. And of course, he voiced his concern as Craig went around the side of the house and grabbed his bike.

"What if it starts storming, and it rains so heavily we can't see where we're going, and we go off of the bridge or get hit by lightning? What if God is pissed at us? Oh, Jesus!"

Craig snorted. "Shut up, Tweek, and get on. Nothing's gonna happen, promise."

Not feeling the need to argue further, he stepped onto the spokes and wrapped his arms around Craig's middle. They'd learned several years ago that Tweek didn't have enough balance, or confidence, on his own to ride a bike, and his increasing nervousness failed him. So they always doubled, despite the safety risks. But the blonde had his own part to play, by making the space craft noises, with several of his customary "gyahs" and "yehs" included. It made their game of space men unique.

"What's our mission, Craig?" Tweek asked as they peddled down the street, passed empty driveways and yards; the road was deserted.

"There's some alien plant growing on the other side of base, we've got to exterminate it."

"What?"

Craig sighed. "I found a bag of these round seeds and planted a few at the edge of the grove near Stark's Pond, I wanna see if they're growing."

"Oh, what kind of plant?"

He shrugged, turning off right. "No idea."

"Why didn't we check it coming back?"

"It's not as fun without a helmet, duh," he replied as if it was obvious. Tweek bit his lip to keep from saying anything else. Craig turned again and baked, allowing the blonde to hop off before letting the bike fall unceremoniously to the ground. No one in South Park stole bikes, as everyone knew whose was whose; his happened to be modeled off of one of the cars on Red Racer, and they all knew he to be the only kid that watched the show willingly.

Tweek followed his aqua-dressed friend into the grove, again taking up the job of making space sounds. Every now and then Craig would spot a bird, and commenced whipping out his yellow water gun to shoot a seven-inch squirt of water at it. Usually the bird hardly noticed it was being shot at, but would fly away at the sight of the human boys; it was then Craig would whoop with joy over another victory. Tweek thought it rather ridiculous, but each to their own.

On top of a hill where the pond and road they'd traveled on the bike were visible, the gun-happy boy stopped and bent over on his knees, inspecting the leaf-covered soil, brushing away some of the decomposing foliage with his mother's rubber kitchen gloves. He cursed under his breath.

"What?" Tweek said quickly, jumping away from his friend as if shocked by the swears.

"They aren't growing."

"Do you water them?"

Craig looked up at the blonde as if he was stupid. "No, but they should still grow! I mean, plenty of animals have had to piss here."

"You don't know that," Tweek said, gaze darting around for these mentioned animals.

"Do you volunteer?"

"What! No!"

"Okay then, shut up." Craig stood, brushing dirt from his knees and kicked at the area before something caught his eyes. Interested, he slid farther into the trees and shuffled more leaves from the ground, to expose a small, dead animal. As he went to touch it his hand was smacked, painfully hard.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing?" Tweek shrieked, this sudden outburst enough to startle Craig. "You don't touch dead animals ever! Especially _bats_!" He pointed an accusing finger at the tiny creature's mouth, white foam dried in a sticky residue on the fur. Ants and several other insects that would progress the decaying process flew around the body, making it seem alive with the movement. "See that? It had _rabies_! You could get rabies from it! Or AIDs! Jesus Christ! Gyah, I can't take it! It's too much!"

Craig rolled his eyes. "It's not like I fucked it, Tweek."

"Didn't you pay attention when Mr. Mackey went over this? _Any_ bodily fluids could transmit AIDs! Including rotting juices! Jesus!"

"Tweeky, calm down—"

"_No_! This proves it!" he shouted, throwing his hands into the air. "The bats are going to kill us! They'll keep dying, and then the woodland critters will get infected by them, and they'll mingle with pets, and then the pets will love on their humans, and us humans will die! It's like the _black fucking plague_! All over again! Oh God, we have to get home! We have to bathe!"

Craig grabbed his friend's hands and shook them, squeezing hard enough to cause pain. Tweek shook, his body twitching in unreleased theory. "No, the bat won't kill us, and it's not the black plague all over again. That was in the fourteen hundreds, they didn't have the medicine to cure it. There won't be an outbreak, okay? Just calm down, breath easily, hyperventilating won't do you any good. Okay, better?"

Tweek gave a short nod as Craig tugged him back down the hill to their mode of transportation. On the way back he remained utterly silent, wondering what would happen if the Bubonic plague ever did strike again, if one of the medical centres carrying it was careless, or if one of the countries with it in possession decided to create the spread of it. It wasn't like it was impossible to do, as the Antrax scare a year ago had inclined. True, as far as he knew there was no such thing as "Bubonic/Pneumonic Plague Island", but still. And of course, he worried about the bats.

It was in these thoughts they entered their neighborhood, now two children out. Bebe and Wendy sat on the formers front porch, watching the swirling clouds as they road home. Wendy's piercing voice drifted to them.

"Hey Craig! Where were you after school?"

"Yeah, Cartman was all boasting about how much of a chicken shit you were to bail on the fight!" Bebe called, accompanied by a laugh.

_What fight_? Tweek thought, brows furrowing as Craig flipped the girls off.

"Too much of a pussy to talk about it?" the Stevens' girl yelled, challenging the boy's ego. Tweek could make out a faint growl from his friend, and felt Craig tense but he refused to stop.

"Oh well, you'll just have it in with fatass tomorrow then, _Colour Lover_!" Wendy crooned before breaking out into girlish giggling at the nickname. Tweek had to give him credit at the patience Craig had to not yell back at them, but then again, he had no idea what that was about. He'd have to question it when they got back.

The walkie talkie crackled before, "Boys, dinner is ready, over."

"We're on our way, over and out," Tweek squeaked into the thing, holding down the button. Craig peddled faster, and they slid into the driveway a mere thirty seconds later. Tweek jumped off, waiting for Craig as he put the bike back where it was before going inside. The smell of chicken, mashed potatoes, and broccoli was mouth-watering.

Upon entrance Craig's father crossed the threshold in a timely manner, stopping to stare at the two boys with brows raised. He opened his mouth to say something, shut it, and tried for something that wouldn't insult their imaginations. "Uh, no fishbowls—I mean helmets—at the table."

"Don't criticize them like that, Thomas," Lydia said sternly on her husband's heels.

"Lydia, how are they supposed to eat with those on? It's not like the fork will go through the freakin' glass!"

"I'm sure they would've figured that out on their own," the woman snapped as Thomas flipped her off. She rolled her eyes and helped the boys remove their helmets, boots, and gloves before leading them into the dining room. They took their seats, Thomas at the head of the table, the girls on one side, and the boys on the other before saying a quick grace and helping themselves.

"So how was your adventure in space?" Thomas asked, fork poised full of fluffy potatoes. Craig held up his index finger, signaling 'hold on' as he chewed a piece of chicken and swallowed.

"Oh, it was good. We fought Navy men, on the Atlantic."

"But you're _space men_."

"Oh. Well, Navy men on Uranus then."

Tracie snorted back laughter in the process of drinking, the beverage ending up spewing onto her plate.

"Smartass," Thomas mumbled, but the grin showed it wasn't an insult. Lydia, however, prickled anyway.

"Don't 'smartass' him, Thomas!"

"Yeah, don't 'smartass' me."

Tweek watched as they all began to raised their middle fingers, waving them around like banners. Knowing this was normal behaviour in the Nommel household, he ignored it and shoveled broccoli into his mouth, before a disgusted sound by his friend stopped him.

"Dude! Why are you eating _broccoli_?"

"Because I like it!" Tweek argued. "What, did Tracie spew in it?"

"Not funny," the girl said rolling her eyes. Craig just shook his head, a coy smiling curving his lips as he continued eating without another comment. The whole table finished dinner like that, in comfortable silence, and the blonde knew this was another of the Nommel's customs; talk about something for a few minutes, flip each other off, and eat. It was how mealtimes worked in the household.

Tracie excused herself first, and then Thomas. Once the boys were done Lydia stood up and gathered their plates for washing. Before they could scamper off her stopped them. "I know how much you two hate it, but after being outside in those costumes you boys have to bathe. Go get out of your outfit and meet me in the bathroom."

"Mom," Craig said, astounded by such a thought. It wasn't like he'd never bathed with one of his friends before, it seemed a concept all of their mother's loved, bathtime. But still, knowing his mother actually considered it was embarrassing!

"You're a dirty little boy and need a bath, so don't argue and just go upstairs and do as I say," Lydia replied impatiently. "You never have a problem when it's Clyde!"

Craig's face flushed a godawful crimson; had he still had his helmet on, it would've fogged up. It wasn't that he had a 'problem' bathing with anyone (except maybe girls), he knew Clyde was completely willing, but he didn't know so with Tweek. After all, the blonde's moral values changed daily.

Knowing resistance was futile he sighed and pulled his friend up the stairs. Once safely in his room Tweek cocked his head, watching Craig struggle out of his space outfit.

"So we're bathing together?"

"Yeah."

"Alright."

Craig stopped tugging on his socks. "You aren't against it?"

"As long as you don't, like, rape me, I'm good," the blonde said with an unusual laugh, throwing his suit off easily and undressed to his underwear. Craig followed example, his hat staying firmly placed as he yanked off his shirt and lead him into the bathroom, where Lydia as playing with the water taps and adding hazardous amounts of bubble to the water.

"So you decided to be ungrumpy about it and bath like a good boy?" she asked with a quirked smile, wet hands going to her hips.

"Yeah, yeah."

"Hat off."

"No."

"Do you want it to mildew?"

"Doesn't matter, it _doesn't_ go off in public."

"And you're home," Lydia sighed, glancing at Tweek. He noticed her devilish look and gave a curt nod before yanking his friend's hat off with tittering laughter, throwing it at the woman, who stood with it out of reach. Craig snarled as he attempted to cover his messy black hair, but failed miserably. Lydia turned the taps off and left the two, wagging the hat at her son in a playful manner as she shut the door.

"Not. Nice," he muttered darkly, stripping completely and slipped into the hot water, hunched down so far only his eyes and upward were left out of water. Tweek giggled to himself as he did the same, dunking under and coming up to wipe soup out of his face, hair slicked down. Green eyes glanced to him and widened slightly in amusement.

"Oh don't pout," Tweek said, splashing at the other boy. "I like your hair, it's nothing to hide. I mean if you had a Jew fro, go ahead and wear your hat, but you don't."

Craig pulled up and wiped foam away from his face. "You like my hair?"

"Yeah."

"I'll remember that," he said coyly, reaching over the side to grab his sister's Rubber Ducky and set it in the water as he shifted position, now facing Tweek, legs outstretched so his ankles brushed against the blonde's thighs. He directed the floating duck toward his friend in means of slashing, as Tweek built a foam-castle.

"Can I ask you something, Craig?" the blonde asked, unsure as his castle dispersed rapidly. Craig considered, looking up at the nervous boy, laughing to himself as he spotted the foam on Tweek's nose. Washing his hand off he reached over and brushed the soap away with a smile.

"Yeah, only if I can ask you _two_ questions."

"What? I want two!"

"Then I get three," he bargained.

"Fine," Tweek pouted, throwing his hands up, bubbles flying everywhere. "Oh, shit," he mumbled as Craig laughed, head tilted to one side, hoping maybe the change in physical perspective would somehow get him on the blonde's level of thinking. "The girls mentioned a fight, what was it about?"

"Nothing."

Tweek glanced up, narrowing his eyes under sopping bangs. "Nuh-uh, you said I could have two questions and that's one of them! No foolsies!"

Craig sighed. "No foolsies. Alright, well Tracie was a little bitch and read some letter I wrote like a bazillion years ago and it started this thing that I like Red, but I really don't, and Cartman was a buttpipe about it and I got angry and told him to fight, but I bailed because of the consequence and here I am." Of course he left out the part about Eric's insults, but he could find out about that on his own time. "What's your other question?"

"Would you still like me if I was a girl?"

Craig balked; what the Hell find of question was that? Why would he even ask such a thing? His mind vaguely brought up the argument with his sister earlier about bows, but why did Tweek care? He settled for shrugging. "I don't know, if you were a girl it'd be different."

"How?"

"Well, for one you wouldn't be in my bathtub with me," Craig said sarcastically, brushing his bangs from his face. "Two, you'd be hanging out with the other girls, and you'd be talking about boys in a way I don't want to think about, and you'd have girl cooties."

"What if I changed into a girl right now, so there was no time for all of that? What would you do?"

"Uh, I guess I'd cover myself with lots of foam and yell for Mom," he said scratching at his head.

"I'm being serious!"

"So am I, I don't know what I'd do, okay?" he snapped, regretting it with a sigh. "Dude, why does it matter?"

"You just made it seem like you wouldn't like me as a friend if I was a girl," he replied, looking down at the water.

"So what? You aren't a girl, right? So _why does it matter_?"

"Is that one of your questions?"

Craig mumbled a curse under his breath and let it drop, if Tweek was so persistent in covering himself then he wouldn't continue to push it. "No, it's not. So, why weren't you in school today?"

The blonde glanced up queerly. "I told you, Jesus Christ! I was at the doctors!"

"Every Wednesday for a year?"

Tweek fell silent; how was he expected to come up with a cover story in such a short amount of time, with Craig impatiently tapping on the ceramic side of the bathtub? And he realized it was impossible. He was living a sad existence if he couldn't trust his best friend, if he thought Craig would shove him away because of it. He looked up, chocolate eyes meeting green.

"Yes…I _do_ go to the doctors, but not the sick-doctor. Oh God!" He buried his face in his hands, his eyes stinging.

"Tweek, don't cry—"

"I'm not crying!" he squealed, rubbing at his eyes furiously, only to cause more of a burning pain. "I got fucking _soap_ in them! Oh Jesus, Jesus Christ! It burns, gyah!"

Craig sighed as he filled a cup next to the tap with cold water and wretched Tweek's head back before pouring the water across his face. Leave it to the blonde to find a way to get soap in his eyes; he truly was unlucky. Once the whimpering stopped, and the burn was just a mild sting (now from ice water being viscously dashed in his face) Tweek let out a shuddering sigh.

"I—I go to this doctor in Denver, Dr. Rizzo. He specializes in mental kids, like me. My check ups are on Wednesday, to make sure I haven't turned into some homicidal killer or something. It's a real bitch, y'know? Everyone thinking you're a nutcase."

Craig couldn't argue, he thought the coffee addict was very different as well, but homicidal? That was extreme. Before Tweek could degrade himself further Craig asked his second question: "Why didn't you want to go home?"

"It goes along with the doctor, see he gives me these pills, like every fucking pill in the world and tell me to take them three times a day, sometimes more. He's always switching prescriptions, knocking a few of the medications off, replacing them with others, and today was no different. I didn't want to be in the house when Dad found out the crap I got put on this time," he replied downheartedly. "I mean, I can't take it! _It's too much pressure_! Living up to his expectations, and being this kid on like, thirty different variants of Ridilin! And the drugs, oh God! They _fuck with you_, big time! I can't take one without the fear of falling unconscious mixed with this other one, or dying, and the health risks! Gyah! It's like if I take the green spotted one with the purple capsule, it causes _heart failure_!

"And the lack of feeling, it's so difficult! Going day-to-day being a paranoid little apathetic freak like the Goth kids! I hate being numb to social issues, and new prescriptions always make me that way. It's why I drink so much coffee, to keep me hyped and at least feeling the need to _move _and be _active_! It's like, I had this puppy before I got put on all the drugs, and I really loved it. And then three months later I was on the drugs and it died, and I didn't care! I shouldn't felt something, but I didn't and I just asked myself, 'what's wrong with me? Why can't I feel some sort of emotional sadness when my fucking dog just died?' I don't want to be like that!"

By the time he took a deep breath, Tweek was in tears. In the back of his mind Craig wondered how, after a speech about no-emotions, he could still cry, until it hit him: the unusual behavior was because he hadn't been taking the medication. And his mother knew it, hid it.

Craig pulled the blonde into a loose, awkward hug, trying desperately to keep his lower half from touching the boy. How long had he been keeping his little secret to himself, wandering through the days feeling so hallow? How long had he been struggling to find the right person to find consolation in?

When Lydia came in to check and assure them their pruned bodies were because they'd been in the water too long, they were drying off, moist hair toweled dry and fluffing outward. She hurried out as Craig protested her presence, only to watch the two boys dart around the hall and into her son's room a few seconds later.

After dressing in pajamas and running a brush trough their hair for a minimal of three seconds—Tweek's had begun to unmercifully spike out in all directions, despite his attempts to flatten it—they lay on Craig's bed, watching the ceiling fan twirl. Rain plattered against the window, dark having come an hour earlier due tot he cloud coverage. Thunder rolled softly over the sound of the fan's mechanical whirl.

"Dude, I wonder what the other guys do when they're together," Craig voiced, stifling a yawn with his hand.

"Probably just watch Terrence and Phillip," Tweek muttered, eyes following a particular fan blade.

"Bet it's more entertaining than this."

"I think this is pretty fun, don't insult the fan! Just because it's attached to the ceiling doesn't give you any right to criticize its habits."

Craig chuckled tiredly, closing his eyes as he sat up, obscuring the blonde's view. "You tired?"

"I don't sleep."

"What?"

"That's why I drink coffee, if I don't then the monsters will get me," he said, voice tremouring slightly. Craig raised a brow out this new excuse as to why he consumed so much caffeine.

"Dude, you've got to sleep."

"No I don't."

"Well you're sleeping when you're here," he said with finality. "I don't care if you sleep against the wall, I'll take the floor."

"You'll get attacked down there!"

"No I won't, but I'm going to bed, so where do you want to sleep?"

Tweek twitched as he slid off the bed and cross to the desk where he plopped down in the chair and stuck his tongue out at Craig. There he switched the desk lamp on the lowest setting and flipped off the main light, so only a dull light pulsed through the room, accompanied by the occasional lightning strike. The Nommel boy sighed, ending with a yawn as he crawled into bed; he wasn't worried about Tweek, if he wanted to sleep he would.

Within minutes Craig's loud snores echoed in the room, making Tweek grin to himself. If this habit was mentioned to the raven-haired boy, he'd flush dangerously and deny any accusations about this snoring, even if you recorded it. It was another of his flaws the blonde loved instead of found annoying, like he knew Clyde and the other guys did. It gave Craig a sense of reality instead of this "perfect beauty" ideal America was so fond of, even if it was just irregular nasal congestion.

Pulling open the top desk drawer he took out a sheet of paper and a box of crayons, _Crayola_ variety. At home he'd stay up at night, drawing for his collection, or reading. Not interested in the assortment of car books and manuals stacked in neat piles, he went with the former idea, and found himself drawing Craig.

The flipper took up nearly the whole paper, coloured neatly, hardly going out of the lines. He was drawn on a curving line with quick little puffball-like trees drawn in the back with pointy snow-topped mountains. After two minutes of scribbling he went back to the hat, and carefully added detail, the finished product coming out very realistic. It as something he did in all of his "real drawings", added amazing amounts of detail to the object he thought most important, with Craig it was his hat. When doodling Clyde he'd make his scarf the centre object of affection, as it had been a gift from Butters for his ninth birthday, and hardly went a day without it. For Token, the characterized "T" on his shirt as done carefully, the embroidery matched nearly perfectly. And on the occasional time he drew Kyle, emphasis was put on the Star of David stitched onto his hat's earflaps.

It was about that time a bright flash of lightning lit the room, and thunder clapped only seconds afterward, loud enough to shake the windows and crayons left on the desk. Tweek squeaked, kicking the back of the desk, which caused the blonde to lose balance and tip the chair backwards. Letting out an, "ouhf," his breath hitched, realizing he was staring directly under the bed. He shut his eyes tightly, waiting for the inevitable.

"_Yuouffh_, Tweek?" Craig's sleepy voice asked as he yawned, rubbing at his eyes. "What are you doing on the floor?" Receiving no response from his stilled friend he left the comfort and warmth of the blankets and slid to the floor, waving a hand in front of Tweek's face. He glanced between the dark depths of under the bed to the blonde and sighed. "Tweek, get up."

The coffee addict twitched, breathing shallow, and slowly opened his eyes, not feeling immense amounts of pain. So a monster hadn't consumed him after all. However, in his vision was Craig's face, so close it blurred. He jumped away, yipping in surprise.

Seeming to sense his thoughts Craig just yawned in his explanation. "Dude, under there is so messy, no monster could even find space to live. A cockroach maybe, which is creepy and disgusting, but no monsters. Lay off watching _Nightmare on Elm Street_, okay? He returned to bed, stretching out a hand to help Tweek up. "Now come here and _sleep_."

"But—but it's thundering and really loud! It's scary," he mumbled, cringing against the sound barrier being broken continuously.

"Yeah? Well we've got a dog house, and if you don't come here you can go sleep out in the rain and thunder, how 'bout that?"

Knowing Craig was cruel enough to do it, Tweek hurried to the bed and crawled up, placing his back firmly to the wall as he pulled the blankets so far up over his face on his eyes showed. The sleepy one grunted his acknowledge, rolled over with his back to Tweek, and was instantly asleep.

With Craig's snores amazingly drowning out the sound of the thunder, the blonde suddenly found himself increasingly tired. His last thought before sleep claimed him was how amusing it was that Craig's snores were louder than the storm raging outside, and yet, it didn't bother him for a moment.

---

On his way to work, Thomas drove the three kids to school, after a harsh argument with his wife about leaving them out in the drizzling rain to catch colds waiting for the bus. His son couldn't complain, he wasn't up for riding the bus with the other kids after bailing on his fight; finally the consequence of choosing Cartman were revealing themselves.

After much pleading with the ginger-haired man, Tweek convinced him to stop at Harbucks on their way to school. It'd been two days without coffee, and his body was going through withdrawls. Despite not wanting to see his father, Tweek would do just about anything for caffeine.

Upon entrance Richard looked up from his duty, a large red mug of coffee in his hands. He offered a smile to his son and nodded at Thomas. "Well hello there, son. Have you stopped by for a fresh cup of coffee? Fresh, like a crisp salade served with the finest greens from the Mayan fields. Fresh like—"

"Dad!"

"Oh, sorry." Pouring his son's usual he hands over the cup with a smile. "Now don't spill it, son, it's hot like the firey surface of the sun, the torrents of lava—"

Tweek hurried passed Thomas, shaking his head in irritation shouting, "The metaphors, man! Unnnh!" Back in the car he sipped his coffee, his right eye occasionally spazzing as he muttered obscenities about literary devices. It was a straight shot to school then, done in silence. Tracie bound off to meet up with her girlfriends as the boys waved adieu.

Within moments of entering the school house, the boys ran into their gang. Token just laughed as he saw Craig smiling smugly and smacked him on the back as Clyde said hello to Tweek.

"Oh boy, I can't believe you bailed on Cartman! You're in for Hell today, Craig," the Williams boy said, flashing pearly whites.

"Yeah, what the fuck were you thinking?" Clyde asked as they traversed the halls and mingling kids. Tweek fell into step behind, something that he always did.

"I don't believe I was," Craig said with a slight chuckle, rubbing at his neck as they stopped at his locker. Opening it several notes fell out onto the floor—growling at his companion's laughter he shoved them into the nearest garbage can and threw his things into the locker.

"Obviously not, lettin' your sister find that note!" Token said, wrapping an arm around Craig's shoulders. "So is it true, Colour Lover, you got the hots for Bertha Red Allan?"

Craig shoved him away, scoffing. Token laughed as he fell into a locker, raising his brows suggestively. "No way, dude, I ain't tappin' that ass."

"Aw, come on, Craig. If it _were_ true then we'd all be cool dudes; Token's got Wendy, I've got Bebe, you'd have Red, and then we'd just have to find a chick for Tweek here," Clyde said with a chuckle, draping an arm around the said-boy's waist. Tweek yipped, shoving the brunette away.

"Gyah!"

Craig shook his head as they walked passed the cafeteria. "Is there a girl in this school that would date Tweek?"

"Rebecca Cotswald, duh! She's pretty skanky, and she spazzes too! Perfect pair, if you ask me," the dark-skinned boy said, walking backwards as he looked Tweek up and down, considering. The blonde yelped nervously, feeling like he was a puppy on display, merchandise being sized up. "Yeah, I think it'd work _real_ well."

"I don't want to date a girl!" Tweek shouted, twitching uncontrollably. By now the plastic cup his coffee had been in was thrown away, long gone.

"You wanna date a dude, then?" Clyde asked, flashing his teeth in a snarl.

"What? No, no, no no, no—"

"Chill out dude," Craig said, rolling his eyes. This as how he acted in public, a complete asshole, a jerk, an overall dick. The niceties, the cheer, it was all on a personal level, and always would be. "We all know you can't get any from anyone."

The boys laughed as Tweek shirked away, twitching. Sure, Craig could joke and insult him, but no one else was allowed.

_What a hypocrite!_ Tweek thought to himself as he stormed off, trying to remember why he hung out with that group of guys. Staring at the linoleum floor in hate he startled, finding a fat foot in his vision. Looking up was none other than Eric, a shit eating grin plastered to his face.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Craig's bitch-boy," he crooned, behind Stan pinching the ridge of his nose. "So where's Nommel, hiding in the bathroom?"

"I don't know! Unnnh!" Tweek shrilled, looking around desperately for an escape. He could go back, but would have to face his clique, or he could try slipping passed the lumbering hulk of Eric; neither seemed too pleasing.

"Oh, but I think you do, after all you just got dropped off with him, right Tweekeroo?"

Shit, he'd forgotten about that. "Don't call me that!"

"What, Tweekeroo?" Receiving a nod Eric just laughed. "What's better? Tweeky, Tweekster, Twitch, Twitchy—"

"None of them!" the blonde shouted firmly, pushing Cartman in a bold attempt to get his point across. The fat-boy's face turned from amusement to anger.

"Ay! Respect my fuckin' authority!" Before Eric could throw a punch Tweek slipped under his arm and scurried off to class, figuring his books were less important then his teeth. As soon as he madly dashed into his chair (tipping it with the force and sending him nose-first into the tile) the bell rang, signaling you had five minutes to get to class. Within moments the room filled with bustling children, the last body to walk in being Mr. Garrison.

"Okay children, I've got some news for you," he said, glancing around the classroom. "Oh Tweek, good to see you back. Anyway, during lunch there's going to be a 'save the trees' and 'animal rights' meeting held in the library in case you want to go, this being held by our own little Wendy." A few people glanced to the girl, rolling their eyes; Eric muttered something about a fucking hippy bitch under his breath.

"Now today we're going to do some vocabulary work in groups of four which _I_ will be assigning. Each group will get four words, in which they'll have to elaborate on in three or more sentences. You know, give examples. Here's one for aspire: Mr. Slave aspires to be the best hooker in the red light district. Any questions?"

Gregory's hand shot up, making the balding teacher sigh. "Yes Gregory?"

"This can be done in any tense, correct? Like your use of aspire—"

"Yes, as long as the word is used correctly it's fine. Anyone else?" Seeing no hands raised he gave a short nod. "Alright, groups, groups…"

Tweek's mind wandered, not particularly caring, though names still registered: _Wendy, Gregory, Butters, Dogpoo. Kevin, Clyde, Annie, Bebe. Token, Pip, Damien, Sally. Stan, Jason, Terrence, Sally. Craig, Jimmy, Bill, Timmy, Melanie. Kenny, Conner, Luigi, Lizzy. Kyle, Eric, Tweek, Marcy. _

"Mr. Garrison, I don't think that's such a good idea," Kyle said at the mention of their group.

"Is your mother going to start some silly war?" the teacher asked, waving Mr. hat around.

"No—"

"Then it's a perfect idea. Now get into your groups, you've got half an hour to impress me."

As they scattered to regroup, Tweek took a seat by Kyle, across from Marcy so he was as far from Cartman as possible. The neo-Nazi grinned devilishly at the blonde, a queer glint in his eyes as Marcy too the paper with their words and read them aloud:

"Console, horde, jeer, and trite."

Eric ripped the paper from her hands. "Oh, ho, ho, you guys, not to worry! I've got this under control."

"What're you planning, fatass?" Kyle asked calmly, shooting Cartman a look.

"Ay! I'm doing your goddamned work for you, Jew-boy, so shut your mouth! Jesus Christ, no appreciation around here."

As he wet to work the Jew sniffed indignantly and rolled his eyes. Tweek hid a smile behind his hand, watching the fat-boy scrawl and scribble on a sheet of paper the sentences, Marcy pulling out a book to read through. Turning to glance across the room he saw Craig faired no better, most likely being hassled for yesterday by his group.

_He deserves it_ Tweek thought to himself, twitching. Who really ran from a fight? Even when Craig and himself had gotten into a fight, they went at it! Half an hour quickly passed with memories of the lancing pain from each blow playing in his head.

"Okay you little shitheads, we've got time for one person to go. Since their group was picked last, why doesn't someone from Kyle's group go?"

Cartman jumped up, knocking his chair backward in hi haste. Hurrying to the board, he turned to the class, clearing his throat as he did so and unwrinkled the paper.

"I have for you three of the finest examples of the word 'console' you'll ever hear. To broaden your learning experience, I've used three different tenses; observe!" The class snorted at his antics, but otherwise kept silent. "Craig ran for consolation after bailing on our fight, 'cause he's a total douchewad. He consoled in Tweek. To console him, Craig gave him a blow-job." He stopped, waiting for some sort of comment from the Nommel child. Craig remained staring at his paper darkly, a tick in his jaw from where he ground his teeth.

"Well that was interesting," Mr. Garrison said, feigning impressiveness before a yawn. Waving a hand he dismissed them to recess early. Like always Tweek was the last to leave, sneaking away. One last comment from the teacher sent him running, dry heaving: "Like soggy hot dogs, isn't it?"

The first thing he heard upon busting through the playground doors was Craig's raised voice shouting, "What the fuck are you trying to pull, buttpipe?" Taking in the sight he found everyone clustered in the centre of the courtyard, supposedly surrounding the two. Hating crowds he went to the slide and climbed to the top, everything viewable from there.

"Worked up, huh? Enough to fight this time?"

"What the Hell do you think, I'm here, right?" Craig asked, raising a two finger salute. Cartman only laughed.

"Oh, ho, ho, you're going to have to do a lot better than that, Craigy-poo."

Before another snide remark could be made, a streak of blue rushed forward, and before anyone knew it Cartman was on the ground, kicking at the air, screaming bloody murder. Composing himself he sat up, wiping blood away from the corner of his mouth, grinning a red-tinted grin at the crouched Nommel boy.

"Ay, that was a sucker punch, bitch. We've got to count to three before you do that shit," he said, pushing himself into a standing position. "Anyway, I'm using a stand-in."

"What? Craig growled, rising a few inches.

"Yeah, a stand-in, 'cause I don't know if you're good enough to fight me or not. So I want to _see_ before I kick your ass."

"Cartman, that's low!" Kyle shouted, being smacked by the fatboy in the face.

"Shut up, you fuckin' Jew. Now, my stand-in will be…Kenny."

"What!" a voice squeaked through the material of the heavy hood. He waved gloved hands in defense. "Nuh-uh, I ain't doing it."

"Come on, Kenny! I'll give you a dollar," Eric said, fishing a dollar from his pocket and waved it in front of the blonde's face. "Come on, Kenny, mmmmeh, Kenny!"

"Fuck you," Kenny muttered, taking the dollar from the grinning Cartman and shoved it in his pocket.

"Alright! Okay, contestants get ready," Eric said with a laugh, waving the crowd to take a few steps back, in which they did without protest. "Getting ready" consisted of Kenny lowering his hood and rolling up the sleeves of his hoodie, while Craig unzipped his jacket and tossed it at Clyde. "Okay, the count of three: three, two, one—GO!"

The whole fight was blurred, seeming in fast motion; luckily the contrasting colorus of their outfits made it slightly more visible. It slowed a few seconds in as Kenny tripped, smacking his head on the ground hard enough to cause a yelp of pain, but Craig was right there, jamming his fist into the boy's mouth. Repeatedly. The crowd cheered despite the obvious pain Kenny was in as bits of teeth were spit out with blood. Disgusted he McCormick would spit such material at him, Craig stood and swiftly kicked him in the groin with all of his force. After a second time Kenny rolled onto his side, vomiting blood, snot flowing from his nose, face mottled purple. Uninterested in continuing, Craig drug him to his feet, only to shove him backwards. The crowd parted as Kenny stumbled, retching vivid amounts of bright red onto the ground as the raven-haired boy continued. The kids jeered, laughing at the sport as if nothing as wrong as the blonde fell over the hem of his pants, smacking his head on a tether ball being hit by a few first graders. The impact sent it twirling the pole, back around to wrap the clammy flesh of Kenny's neck. Sliding down the pole the cord pulled taut, his weight suffocating him. Within a few seconds (and a couple of more punches) he was thoroughly dead.

"You killed Kenny!" Stan yelled, seeming shocked, though everyone had been given plenty of chances to pull Craig back.

"You bastard!"

Craig turned, his hands slick and sticky with the crimson residue, face spotted with it, along with his clothing. He grinned, flashing his teeth sadistically, sending a chill down Tweek's spine. Everyone parted for him as he stalked back to the vomit encrusted ground, glancing around casually, though it seemed like a panther looking for prey.

"So where's Cartman, did he bail?" he asked in a deadly calm voice, though the pitch was off, higher.

"Y—you bet," Butters stammered, clucking his knuckles together. Craig shook his head, wiping his hands on Butters' arm as he passed and grabbed his jacket from Clyde, muttering:

"Pussy."

---

After school, Craig was once again the snide asshole, laughing it up about some joke made at lunch with the guys. Tweek couldn't stand it as he followed them out to Terryall creek, twitching nervously. How could anyone go from killing someone—granted that someone had a tendency to die every few days—to being completely normal? He still had blood on his clothes, for Christ's sake!

"Tweek, hurry up, dude!" Clyde's voice called from far away, and he realized he was still on the road leading to the residential community, while they had cut off toward the creek and were now over thirty yards away.

_Fuck them, go home and draw, let them be murderous savages!_"

"But they're my friends," Tweek whined to himself, hurrying to catch up. Once he was side-by-side with them they continued forth to the small walk-bridge connecting the two banks, painted a hideous puke-green colour. There they plopped down, chattering about Wendy's butt as Token handed a deck of cards.

Tweek ignored them the best they could as they argued which version of bridge to play, more content watching his reflection in the swirling water. Even to himself his eyes seemed sunken in, dark circles bringing out the golden flecks in his eyes. Seeing himself the first thought that came to mind was a lyric in the song "Mad World" by Gary Jules.

"_I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad_," he sung softly to himself, startling as Craig appeared in the reflection, the same smiling-Craig he'd been the night before.

"You playing with us, Tweekster?"

He turned to face his friends, friends that were anxious for his answer, even as Token continued shuffling the deck. These were the boys he could trust his life with, and yet could take one so easily. He'd grown up with them, around them, and despite the pranks and practical jokes, they still had each other at the end of the day. He gave a nod, sitting himself by Clyde as the cards were dealt, finishing the lyrics mentally with a sad laugh.

_The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had_.

* * *

**A/N**: Hah, guess I should've mentioned it's a Tweek/Craig fic, huh? Whoops, my bad. So not much psychoanalysis yet, that gets big when they're older. Gotta set the playing field, y'know? Thanks to my reviewers, love you all. And look, I kept my promise; it's long! Oh yeah, unf unf. 

For the record, don't ask about my numbering system xD; I've got no bloody idea.


	3. 1 2 Rejection

**Note**: Warnings will pretty much be the same each chapter. If there's something big to point out, I'll go it. Also, I think I cleaned hte mess up with the drug usage, but if some of htem aren't compatible and I didn't catch it, whoops.

**Disclaimer**: No intentions of violating copyrights, this is just for fun, yadda yadda.

* * *

1.2 Factors of a Well-Tamed Rejection

**re·jec·tion **_n._

1. The act of rejecting or the state of being rejected  
2. Something rejected  
3. _Medicine._ The failure of a recipient's body to accept a transplanted tissue or organ as the result of immunological incompatability, immunological resistance to foreign tissue.

Friendship indeed is a powerful thing. Without the security of a certain clique, you're no one. People friend those that are close to them, that have the same values, so they can have that false closeness and knowledge that their point of views are "better" in the long run. It's really a subconscious thing, you know, to dislike those with a different train of thought. Sometimes you're never aware of this subtle dislike until it's too late. On the other hand, there are those exceptions that are attracted and bewildered by those that confuse them. They're quite difficult to pick out of a crowd; they can have many friends, or non at all, drift between thoughts easily, or walk a fine line that cannot be conjured. _He_ was one of these types, hated by many, adored by some, the majority, though, were befuddled by him. _He_ was different…and that's why they were such good friends.

---

How could one comprehend what one didn't experience, especially at such a young age? Craig couldn't, and it infuriated him. Since the night of Tweek's confession, he'd been trying to truly understand what the blonde had said, and failed thus far. He understood fact as fact, but truth was against him.

_Living up to his expectations, and being this kid on like, thirty different variants of Ridilin!_ That he could accept. It could be worded differently, but it still said the same thing. Was Clyde's dog, Rex, on thirty variants of Ridilin? No, Tweek was. It was just that, fact.

_It's like if I take the green spotted one with the purple capsule, it causes _heart failure! Again, fact. He knew that there were health risks involved with drug consumption, the commercial ads said so. There were risks for everything done, so medication didn't seem much different in that aspect.

_And the lack of feeling, it's so difficult!_ This, this he had trouble comprehending. Sympathy he could give, but understanding, that he didn't have. And it aggravated him _he_ couldn't be there for Tweek. He'd always known emotion, happiness, annoyance, even choice of "I like waffles with syrup instead of strawberries" or "Emus are cooler than ostriches." Having no preference, knowing no emotion befuddled Craig. How was it possible to go through life like that, without snapping?

And it was simple, it was either impossible, or a drug-induced haze. But why would anyone take medication if it made them that way? If it kept them from being human? Addiction? But how could they have addiction if they didn't feel anything? Addiction is false security, that's why, it gives comfort when you have no one to turn to, and something to blame when everything is wrong. Drugs do it all, and as a bonus give that euphoria nothing else could produce. Of course, there are those like Tweek that have no choice in the matter, that do it because they're told, with bottled doubts about such a thing. It isn't addiction that drives them to psychological pain, it's reasoning.

But addiction even struck the blonde in the form of a different drug; caffeine. It was consumed to prevent that hollowness that Craig couldn't understand. To keep him active, and feeling the need to move, though it increased paranoia when coupled with many of the medications. But there was emotion there, fear and suspicion, but it was something.

_That_, Craig could relate to. He was addicted as well, to Tweek, which was why he worried, why he fell into such thoughts. He didn't want Tweek to become a mindless zombie like the Goth kids, he loved him the way he was, twitchy and quirky, spouting fantasies of death and monsters in the closet, and yelling something absurd in class before falling unceremoniously to the floor in his haste. It's what made Tweek Tweek, the bushy blonde hair that couldn't be tamed (though Craig had his suspicions that was due to Eavan's genes), his nervous laughter, the way he couldn't button his shirt correctly or tie his shoes, and how he always bit on his thumb nails, leaving the others long and untouched. It was like Clyde's habit of crying at the silliest things, Kenny's relationship with Death, Bebe's worship of Kyle's ass, Butters' knuckle-clacking, Stan's nose-pinching, or his own learned habit of flipping people off. Without such qualities, none of them would be themselves.

So it was no wonder Craig was so persistent in the knowledge of _why_. He went to the one person he knew would have the answer:

Chef.

---

The house was the same style as every other house in South Park, and painted green, one of the choice colours in the town. The school cook hardly rejected any plea to him from the children, which was what Craig was hoping for as he leaned up on his toes and pressed the doorbell. A musical note chimed from inside, sounding much like his own hit, "Chocolate Salty Balls", before the door swung open to reveal the heavyset black man, Jerome McElroy, sporting a leopard print robe and his trusty chef's hat.

"Well hello, children," he said with a bright smile, tipping his hat back with a large hand.

"Chef, I need to talk to you," Craig replied after shuffling his feet, craning his neck back to make eye-contact. Feeling the chill in the air the man stepped out of the way, inviting Craig in.

"Well come on in, I'll get some hot chocolate goin'."

As Chef walked away to the kitchen to do so he muttered a, "Thanks," looking around the place. It was clean, as expected, to impress the ladies he was always with after school hours, Craig guessed. Though the lack of colour coordination would have him running; what did the chicks see in Chef? Shrugging it off he continued his exploration, stopping at a picture of the man and his parents, in what appeared to be Scotland, with a large lake behind them, and off to the side a girl holding a sign reading, "I need about tree-fitty." He'd heard many tales of the infamous Loch Ness Monster, one of the more amusing (or so he thought) being the McElroy's buying a cat, and when meowing asked what it wanted, because it had food, water, and wouldn't go out. It'd answered, "Uh…I need about tree-fitty," and of course was recognized as an eight story tall crustacean from the Protozoic era.

He chuckled at the thought, shaking his head as he climbed onto the soft velvet-feeling sofa. If the Loch Ness Monster ever asked him for tree-fitty, he'd kick it square in the balls.

It was about that time Chef reappeared with two mugs and handed one of the foaming cups to Craig. The boy took it graciously, sipping the contents with a sigh. Who didn't like hot chocolate? Chef sat down across from him and set the glass on the table.

"So what's wrong, Craig?"

"Say I've got this friend that has to go to the crazy-doctor once a week, and he's got to take these pills. But he doesn't want to, because they make him blank. Why would someone make anyone take those pills?"

Chef sighed, scratching at his beard as Craig stared him down for the answer. "Well, children, it's his parents decision. But that isn't the point, sometimes people think differently than what the normal person should. Something is wrong with their brain, and these drugs help them to put things in perspective like how you or I would see them. Of course these drugs can have nasty side effects such as blankness."

"But he isn't crazy," Craig mumbled to his lap, looking at his reflection in the murky depths of the hot chocolate. Looking upward he asked, "What if he doesn't want to take them? Then what?"

"He needs to discuss it with his parents, they're the only ones that can do something about it."

"But his Mom doesn't want him to take it, and his Dad isn't very nice to him!"

Clearing his throat at the insult to Richard, Chef eyed the boy. "I'm sorry, Craig, it's just how it is, unless he's of legal age his parent's get the right to make the decision for him."

Grumbling something inaudible Craig shifted, crossing his legs Indian style. "Okay, then what is blankness?"

"Well, it's just that, blankness. You don't feel anything, you've got no personal belief on things. You're not effected by things others would be, like death, compassion, love, passion…Uh, let's not get on that subject, okay?" he muttered more to himself than the confused boy. "You just have no emotion, become a shell of yourself. It's a common occurrence with mixed drugs, actually."

"How does it start? And what happens?"

"You start takin' the drugs and eventually they react with each other. They do this while blocking out the problem, which is usually behavioral so it messes with the response system of the brain. To get rid of the problem, it just shuts down that function, but the problem if it also crews with everything else in that grouping. If your just started to take them, and something occurs that would provoke emotion while that part of the brain is shutting down, it can lead to a very confusing experience, and trigger odd happens with the drugs. Same goes for if you're off the drugs for a while, you start feeling and it can mess with your mind."

"So basically it's an in 'till the end thing?"

"Pretty much. But don't let side effects fool you, Craig, the medication is putting things back into perspective for him and—"

"He's not crazy!" the boy shouted, shaking hands threatening to spill the hot drink on him. Seeing this Chef pried the glass from his firm grip and set it on the table. Kneeling before Craig he grabbed his hands.

"Whoa, children, calm down. We're talking about Tweek, right?"

"Yeah."

"Now I'm not callin' him crazy, alright? He's just different, his mind ticks in a different fashion. Like how below the equator toilets flush clockwise, while above they go counterclockwise. You understand?"

Craig sighed. "I know he's different, we all are. But I still don't understand."

Chef shook his head, hat falling slightly over his forehead. "Nommel, you're stubborn, and naïve. Besides that you're a _kid_, and kids aren't supposed to understand how drugs work. Even if you're worried about your friend and how to help him, frettin' over it won't do you any good. You won't get the gist of it out of a book or by asking someone; they can give you the factual information, but experience is what will set you in Tweek's mind. Or asking Jesus, but I doubt he'd tell you. Though I'm sure Tweek wouldn't want you to be so upset, alright?"

Craig huffed, blowing air haughtily from his nostrils. "I'm not upset."

"Sure, sure," Chef said with a smile, getting to his feet. "Now, is everything clear?"

"As clear as it's going to get," Craig replied, glancing up at the adult. "Oh, Chef? Do you know a lot about plants?"

The black man shrugged indifferently. "I guess, why?"

---

Despite a whole ten days passing since Tweek slept over, the wind had gotten harsher, carrying the bitter sting of a Canadian front. Ten days and the wind had stripper the trees nearly bare, scattering flame coloured leaves across he ground, swirling with each puff of breeze. Craig jabbed his hands farther in his pockets, kicking at the leaves as he lead the grunting cook into the grove near Stark's Pond. Nearing the top of the small hill he sidestepped the skeleton of the dead bat, glancing at it without interest and knelt by a sprouting plant.

Chef stilled as he watched Craig poke at the five-leaved plant curiously. What he wondered was how the boy had gotten it to grow in such a climate. "Craig, where the Hell did you get that?"

"I found a bag of seeds near Stark's Pond and wanted to see what they grew," he replied, turning his gaze upward. "Why?"

"You can't be growin' that! You don't have any more seeds, do you?"

"No," he lied, pushing to his feet to remove stress of his neck. "Why?"

"It's illegal to have that," Chef said, exhausted as he waved a hand in the direction of the budding plant. "Don't you know what that is?"

"No."

"It's pot, little cracka!"

He looked down at the plant with new-found curiosity. He'd heard of the effects accompanied with the plant, but would that make him any better than those on psychotic medications? No, he'd be a hypocrite. "You mean like that hippies smoke? Weed?"

"Yes, weed," Chef answered, rolling his eyes. "Now we've got to get rid of this before anyone finds it."

"But shouldn't we keep it, incase there's another hippie get together, we can always tempt them out of South Park? Or we could sell it—"

"Oh no, no, no, no. Didn't you hear me? it's illegal to just possess it, but selling? Absolutely fudgin' not. You obviously don't pay much attention to Mr. Mackey, do you, Craig?"

The boy shrugged nonchalantly, hair wisping in his eyes. What could he expect, after a while you just tuned out the stick-man. "I see him everyday and get the same lecture. It's like telling a kid 'no', eventually after hearing it so often it just doesn't click."

Not seeming to care for the analogy, Chef reached down and yanked the pot plant from the ground, much to Craig's disappointment. But all for naught, now knowing what I was he'd be careful where to plan the next ones. And of course 'when' was a large factor, starting on a new one after being caught with this one wouldn't bode well. Maybe in a month or two—

"Come on, little cracka, we've got to destroy the evidence."

---

Staring down into the marble depths of the bowl, heater tinting his cheeks a warm pink, a shadow looming over, the boy grinned as the plant was washed away down the drainage pipes of Chef's toilet. In a shocked voice he squeaked, "So it _does_ go counterclockwise, huh."

---

If he had to choose which doctors he hated the most, it'd be the piss-in-the-cup ones. Really, what did urine say except you're a dirty fucker for playing around in it? Oh, you ate a _Big Mac_ for lunch, you're cholesterol is going to go sky-high. Oh no, watch out, your left ventricle might clog up and you'll die. It just wasn't very reasonable. Neither was the amount of test he'd been threw, from simple piss-in-the-cup, to having his blood drawn, to a brain wave analysis and seven others in between. And now, an MRI? Phft.

He'd never gotten along well with small, cramped spaces; Claustrophobia always caught up with him in the end. Staring at the small hole in the MRI machine, Tweek shook, clamping his mother's hand hard enough to bruise. Was it even possible to breathe in such a closure? It couldn't be, the oxygen supply would eventually run out while the test was going on. But why didn't anyone here of it on the news? Tricky government. Maybe _that's_ what went on in Area-51, MRI death conspiracies.

He hardly noticed as a small, rotund nurse with neatly done wavy blonde hair shook his mom's hand and smiled down at him. "Is your son Claustrophobic, ma'am?"

"Yes, he is," Eavan answered, attempting to squeeze Tweek's hand, but being numb there was no sensation or movement. Tweek was oblivious to his mom's attempts, all eyes for the beaming woman. The slight twitching in her cheek and knit in her brows screamed false sincerity.

"Alright, hun, come on over here and we'll give you a shot," she said kindly, with a trance of irritation in her voice. That alone hinted she had no children of her own.

The boy squeaked as she grabbed his arm, planting his heels on the tile floor in resistance. "Oh Jesus Christ, I don't want a shot!"

Eavan cringed at his disobedience as she bent down to his eye-level. With her free hand she stroked his face, brushing honey bangs from his unsure eyes. "Darling, it'll keep you calm, keep you from hyperventilating. You'll be all relaxed and nothing will hurt you, I promise. It'll be a slight pinch at the most," she said, pinching his cheek for emphasis. He briefly nodded, eyeing the nurse as she waved dramatically at a stool.

"Get comfortable as the shot is prepared," she said dryly, disappearing from the bustling room. He settled on the stool, hands shaking as he glanced around at the personnel. Some seemed sympathetic, others disgusted, though the majority seemed very friendly and people-oriented. Uninterested by these people he turned to Eavan.

"It won't make me sleep, will it?"

She looked down at him, frizzy hair seeming alive in the heating system's whir. "Why do you ask?"

"You know I can't sleep," he whispered, eyes clamping shut. How could she forget? _She_ was the one that had taught him the horrors of slumber. "_He'll_ come."

"He won't come, darling, you've been a good boy," Eavan said, exasperated. Why did he continue to dwell on that story? "He didn't come when you were at Craig's, right?"

Tweek didn't answer. He didn't come, but that was because Craig _was_ there. Anti-drug, that's what his raven-haired friend was. His protector, and torment. Sensing the presence of someone else he opened his eyes in slits, seeing the nurse with a saringe in hand.

"Roll up your sleeve, this won't hurt a bit."

Tweek trembled as he rolled up his sleeve. He knew she was lying between her teeth, but pain didn't bother him. Watching something disappear beneath the skin, and inject straight into the bloodstream bothered him. He didn't know what as in the needle, be it heroine or otherwise.

"Relax," Eaven's voice rolled through his thoughts. He unclenched his hand, letting the arm relax as the needle pressed into the skin, the pain a flash that cut across the nerves. He bit his lip, feeling the needle eject the medication into the vein in an even spurt. It was removed, the skin sliding along the steel. A second later two choices of Band-Aids were given: Chinpokmon, or Terrence and Phillip; he went with the latter.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" his mother asked, giving him a hug. He shrugged, eyelids already feeling heavy. What did he have flowing through his veins? He tried to form the words, but his mouth remained lax. He felt light and fluffy, looking through a tunnel at the surroundings that were perfectly clear a few seconds ago. Now the edges were blurred inn white, vision framed.

"Tweek, if at all possible remove your jewelry, scarf, and shirt please," the nurse asked as she fiddled around at the machine. He tried, mind warped so that he couldn't figure out how to pull the scarf from where it was tucked under itself. Eavan gave a weak smile and batted his hands away, doing it herself.

Consciousness was a thin line, slowly disintegrating away, so it was no wonder that music suddenly drifted through the vastness that was his mind, and his body was lost to him. But as Tweek wandered the shimmering line between awareness and a drug-haze, he found that he wasn't in slumber as the _clank clank whiiiir_ of the MRI sounded distantly. He sighed in his mind's eye as he rubbed at his neck. Must've been Morphine or something.

"_The curious thorn knows no bounds, hmm?_" A voice whispered, the hiss a tangible caress. Tweek shuddered against the voice and coloured ribbons that erupted at the sound, now floating freely through his psyche. Black danced with technicolours, swirling drastic abstractness. He'd gone to great lengths to avoid the voice, and the owner of it for months. But who could really run from subconscious?

_That's_ where it got confusing. He was a story told to children, and yet he lurked within Tweek's mind. As the story went, disobedient children would be visited by Curson during their dreams. A great bat he'd swallow the eagerness the rule-break, and the happiest thought with the child at that time. If the child was unruly again, Curson would send one of his twenty-two legions to condition it. He was also recognized as a child's nightmares and most dastardly thoughts. In the early eighteen hundreds it was a perfect way for children to confess their sins; if they had a nightmare the parents would say something along the lines, "Curson must not be too happy with you, what have you done to disgrace him?" and the children would immediately confess to what they would usually lie about.

In truth, Curson was a deceiving, skillful master of the arts. And he scared Tweek senseless.

"_Vicodin takes a trip and turns, choose your poison wisely_."

So that's what knocked him out, Vicodin. Tweek turned as the voice shifted, eyeing colourful ribbons wearily. They shirked back, glaring lights dimming to a faint, florescent glow. He doubted that his subconscious would pick a form and jump out at him, but knowing Curson well enough, he stayed alert anyway.

"_Worrisome __doctorates, know not the chalice is fragile. Poke and prod they must? It'll shatter before they find the cure._"

"Stop talking like that!" Tweek growled, the anger like static before a rainstorm. It was no wonder he hated analogies so, when his own mind spoke riddles. But he couldn't complain too much, he was far use to the annoying literary devices and word choice.

Warm laughter answered, swirling heavily in the stagnant air. "_Angers you so, does it? Communication is but a crystal, turn it correctly and a rainbow will be made._"

Jeering, even in his own mind he couldn't escape it. It should probably be worrisome the arguments he could make with himself, but somehow it was comforting. Tweek grit his teeth and traveled farther down the shimmering line, one foot in front of the other, careful not to step over into the blackness. Colours flashed from the depths; perhaps if he did fall into himself he'd get some peace.

"_Rash thoughts of suicide could use a helping hand before all for naught. Said by the twenty-first century, 'Have a nice trip'._"

Before a refusal could pass his mouth, long claws brushed against his chest before his balance was lost. The shimmering line flashed as he fell off the edge, into his own psyche, and rained down on him. Before true unconsciousness took hold as he plunged into his Self, the faint form of a human stepped onto the edge of Awareness, ruby glowing eyes watching his descent.

---

Eavan tapped her fingertips impatiently on the cherry-wood side table of the employee's lounge, glancing at the ticking clock ever few seconds. The MRI had gone fine with Tweek drugged into sleep, and had been transported to a back room for a final analysis. That had been nearly a hundred forty-nine minutes ago, during which time she'd read a few magazines, but there's only so much you could do except falling onto the option of waiting.

During which time she'd read all of the kiddy-posters encouraging confidence, made mental notes of all of the fake plants distributed throughout the room and their type (scientific names and common), wrote out eleven different revised grocery lists, sung _In a Gadda da Vida, Baby_ under her breath, and recited the first Act of the _Iliad_ by memory. Between which Eavan noticed the flaws of the room; the chipping crème paint revealing grey plaster, shoddy decorations, and of course the Plug-in that lingered with the scent of medication and hospital.

She was rereading an article on frivolous teen girls and proper condom use for the third time when the rotund nurse, Janine, shuffled in dragging her heels. The peppy blonde had come in a number of times to make sure Eavan's accommodations were alright, and to ask for coffee or refreshments. She never stayed long, seeming to dislike the thought of associating with a parents of a mentally disturbed child.

This time Janine sat a seat away, elbows propped on the armrest, leaning slightly toward Eavan. She set her magazine down, finding the behavior odd and unwelcome. She feigned interest, glossy lips curving into a smile.

"Is the testing done?"

Blonde waves went flying, left, and then right. "Yes, and no. The medication hasn't left his system yet, so your son is currently still asleep. Because of this we're doing a sensory test of the brain with music; without distractions around him in the physical world, it will be much more accurate."

"It should bee over shortly, though, correct?"

"It should be," Janine replied slowly, twirling her hair on a finger. "The doctor will see you soon, anyway, to go over the results and possible options. Of course not all of the results are back yet, but the ones that are give a nice briefing of the whole," she added, seeing Eavan's distrust. "I hope you have nothing important planned this afternoon."

"My son has a slumber party planned with a few of his little friends, which I consider highly important," she said stiffly, crossing her legs. Snide, the nurse was too snide.

Janine seemed shocked, makeup rimmed eyes widening. "Oh, dear, I wouldn't do that! Considering the new medication he could go on, what if it produced adverse effects?"

"The family he will be staying with has a full up to date record of his health. Lydia is well informed and wouldn't let anything happen to Tweek. He's perfectly safe there."

"He probably won't be feeling too great after the shot, it'd be wise just to keep him home."

"The children have had this planned for a week, I'm not going to tell him 'no' now and get his hopes up. He'd be so downtrodden," Eavan replied heatedly, eyes narrowing. Who did this nurse think she was? Her mother, _Tweek's_ mother?

"You should think of his safety, Eavan."

_That_ did it. Chair screeching on the tile Eavan stood and rounded on the nurse. "You think I'm not considering his safety? _I am_! It's the exact reason I let this absurd testing take place, to prove that he doesn't need to be ingesting such harmful chemicals daily in an attempt to sugarcoat some mental illness created by the system for money-gaining properties! There's a lot more to life than just safety. If that was it, we'd all be living with paranoia complex, in separate bombshelters, and there'd be no reproduction in fear of catching an STD, so out race would dwindle away until humans no longer existed.

"You have _no clue_ how hard it is to have a mentally disturbed child, or even a child at all! To hear the stories of other kids poking fun, the taunts and fear that's so evident each time you send them off to school. Keeping them normal, or as normal as the other kids; making sure they socialize and goof around with the other kids, gain friendships and work to build those skills. Any such opportunity has to be taken, especially if the child is going to such lengths as to plan time with friends.

"Until you have a child, don't lecture others how to raise their own, unless you'd like to be slapped," Eavan hissed as she grabbed her purse and strode from the room. The nerve of that woman! Such people hit her blow-up button; the arrogance and good will was just sickening.

"Eavan, Eavan honey, doctor Rizzo is looking for you," the receptionist voice called. She glanced around, realizing she was about to stride out of the building. Offering a smile she gave a nod, returning once more to the hall she'd just exited. The receptionist was a woman she loved and admired, someone that didn't have false assumptions, or stereotyped. Even Tweek had admitted he liked her, though it had taken months to get him to talk to her.

Feeling no need to knock Tweek's mom burst into Dr. Rizzo's office, closing the door with a soft kick of her heel. The man startled, raising his eyes to meet the smoldering hazel of Eavan's, pen poised above a subscription paper. As she slid smoothly across the carpet and sat in the char he dropped his pen, shuffling through a few papers to ignore the firey look she wore.

"Is something wrong, Ms. Tweak?" he asked politely, receiving a small grunt, that sounded more like a teapot whistling.

"I've been here all day, I haven't seen my son in several hours and one of your nurses thought it wise to tell me how to raise him. No, everything is just dandy, Doctor," she said with fake cheer, waving her hands for emphasis. Dr. Rizzo choked back a laugh at the dainty woman's demeanor.

"I'll have to talk to Janine about that and correct her behaviour." He leaned forward, crossing his legs as he rested on a hand. "Let's talk. I've heard Tweek's explanation of his friends, now I'd like to hear yours."

"I came here to know what is wrong with my son, if anything, Doctor, not—"

"I assure you, you will know, I'm not deliberately putting it off. First, however, I'd like to bring up a different issue, so if you'd please just answer the question."

Knowing well the persistence of the doctor she sighed in a defeated manner. How could her views of the children help? It was a motherly relationship she had with them, not a friendly one. "Token's a good kid, very talented, polite, and outgoing. He knows to respect his elders, and doesn't try to grab attention. He does, though, go to extremes to fit in, which is probably his greatest flaw, low self-confidence.

"Clyde is the shy one around the adults, but doesn't ignore conversation, even if answers are quipped. He's a good boy too, but happens to whine and cry a lot, unfortunately. He's still at that awkward child age, though, so it's acceptable.

"Craig, there's a hint of some sadist in him that makes me worry. It also is a trait that I don't particularly care for. He's still got that good-boy charm, though, but is more of the group goof and clown than anything. He does happen to be Tweek's best friend, so of course I love him like my own and would be horrorstruck to see anything happen to him."

Dr. Rizzo gave a slight nod as he rapped his fingertips on the desk. "And you do not find it odd your son is best friends with the boy that put him in the hospital for five days?"

"Kids will be kids, Doctor, they pick fight for no plausible reason. It was merely a play of dominance, so no, I don't find it too odd," Eavan replied kindly through grit teeth.

"But were they ever friends before the incident?"

Crossing her ankles and sitting up straighter she sighed. "Despite the cliques and quibbles among them, all of the children are friends. Who else do they have on such a personal level? Family isn't an issue for them, they'll always have parents and siblings, so they turn to their friends."

"Were they as good as friends before fighting with each other?"

"No."

"And why do you think that is, why would _after_ pummeling each other change it?"

"I have no clue, Doctor, why don't you tell me?" she said sweetly, eyes flashing a dangerous contradiction.

"They're attracted to each other."

Eavan balked, mouth forming a small "o". It took several seconds for the words to sink in, and several more to be comprehended. _They're attracted to each other_. Surely not! She shook her head, frizzy hair flying, and narrowed her eyes.

"I do believe you're mistaken, Ethan."

Dr. Rizzo gave a closed lip smile as he sat back, crossing his arms over his chest. "And how so? I'm sure you know very well that third and forth grade is when crushes start to insue, and the opposite sex seems much more interesting." Eavan's cheeks flushed a slight pink. Of course she knew, it was around that time Richard had seemed rather cute instead of the dopey kid next door with a fascination for fishing. But the issue on hand was so much different!

"So why couldn't the same sex seem interesting as well? Tweek doesn't seem to take much curiosity to girls, rather he seems to connect more with males of his age. It's only natural he'd be attracted to them as well, for now anyway." He rolled his chair to a file cabinet behind his desk and shuffled through the third one down. Pulling out a sheet of paper it was revealed to be the picture of a rose Tweek had drawn at a previous session. "You were here when I gave the explanation of this image. I have a very good feeling this tells everything of the relationship between your son and Craig."

"And this is the issue you so desperately needed to force?"

Shoving the image back into, presumably Tweek's file, Ethan rolled back to his desk. "One of them, anyway. I think it'd be wise to pull Tweek from class to homeschool him. Considering the medication he's about to go on, this would reduce any negative effects that he could experience, and of course taunting by the other children. Now, I'm well aware of you're arguments 'I want to keep him as normal as can be' and 'he's going to have to learn to deal with mean comments', but it'd hurt him a lot more at this time than help."

A sinking feeling filled her stomach as Eavan leaned forward. "What medications?"

Ethan grabbed a sheet of paper from the top of the pile, finger sliding over the print. "We haven't got all of the testing back, so we have no stable ground to really start prescribing, but we know the basis of your son's mental disorders. I'm taking him off of most of the previous medications to start asunder with this." He glanced up from the paper. "Eavan, Tweek has shown symptoms of Schizophrenia, Premorbid Paranoid Personality Disorder, Dysthymic Disorder, and possibly Avoidant Personality Disorder. To treat such issues we'll have to try different medications to see which will adapt better."

Her mind blanked, barely registering the medications they would start with, knowing Tweek's reaction to others of the type. _Geodon, Aripiprazole, Fluvoxamine, Risperidone, Methysergide, Thioridazine, _and the list went on. Her eyes pricked as the knowledge of what this meant was put out before her; with a low moan she buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

---

Light burst sickeningly in the black threshold of his subconscious. Tweek cringed, rolling farther into himself to escape the brightness. He felt resistance as he tried to plunge farther, like coils of rope tied around his limps, dragging him back to Awareness. Struggling was futile, so defeated he let himself be pulled upward.

"_Eternal slumber, this is not, wake to greet your sweetness._"

He sighed, breath a wisp of blue fog among the fading black. It as just like his Self to drag him out of splendid thoughtfulness at the worst time. Or was it Curson that was being the prick? "Must I?"

"_Shall you wilt her rose in worry, you'd be no kind of mine._"

Her? Who was 'her'? "Who are we talking about?"

"_Your mother, fool, know you not your sweetness?_" the voice snapped in disgust. Funny how the Lord of bats that took kids away from their families was so mother-friendly. By then the light became so intense it was almost blinding. Tweek grunted against it, rubbing at his clamped eyes. Feeling them burn he lifted his hands away and opened his eyes, vision focusing on his mother's face, and the crown of frizzy hair. She looked tired, the lines at the corners of her eyes more noticeable, eyes themselves puffy and red as if she'd been crying.

"It's nice to see you awake, pumpkin."

"Is something wrong?" he asked, sitting up and glanced around. The room was small and white, large enough for the hospital-issued bed, a side table, medical equipment, and a chair that remained disregarded.

"It's a good day, no one got shot," she replied with a faint smile. Tweek's brows furrowed by the response; it was her defense mechanism, what she used when something was terribly wrong and was hiding it. It was instinct to wonder what bothered her so, but knew he wouldn't get the answer; it was the parental ideal of being strong for the child.

She extended a hand and stroked his cheek gently before facing it with his own. Tweek startled at the cold f her wedding band, but grew accustom to it in mere seconds. "Come on, sweetie, let's go home and get you ready to go to your friend's."

They walked hand-in-hand down the hall, passed doors and the wailing behind the them, to the receptionist desk behind the glass door leading into the lobby. Pulling out her checkbook, Eavan paid the nominal fee and handed Tweek a lollipop Camile, the receptionist, gave him every visit. He muttered a thanks as they left, back into the warmth and comfort of their car.

Tweek cuddled down into the leather as his mother cranked the heater up and pulled out onto the main road. His arm throbbed dully from the shots and IVs, and his head pounded, threatening to split his skull. He groaned, leaning against the window.

"Mom, my head hurts."

"The _Ibuprofen_ are in the dash, honey, take one of those. Oh, can you call Lydia and tell her we probably won't be there until dark?"

Grabbing the bottle from the dash he gnawed on the top, trying to pop it off, forgetting to align the arrows. "Jesus Christ, gyah!"

Eavan sighed, taking it with one hand and steered with her knees as she popped it off. Tweek watched curiously—he'd always wondered how adults had such precision to do that. Taking the pill she offered he knocked it back with a sip of water and grimaced, hating the feeling of the capsule sliding down his esophagus. One would think after years of taking medication in pill form, he'd be use to it; the embarrassing part, he was.

Grabbing his mom's cell phone he hit speed dial and waited. On the third ring a distinctive female voice answered, incredibly cheerful for the time of day.

"Hello?"

"Mrs—Mrs. Nommel, it's Tweek. We might be late, like…_dark_ late."

"That's alright, sweetie, is there any movie you'd like us to rent?"

"I—I don' know."

The phone rustled around some and Craig's voice filled the receiver. "Hey dude, you're late. You better have one hellavu excuse."

Tweek gave a faint smile, knowing his friend couldn't see it. "I'll tell you later."

Softly in the background Clyde's voice said, "Ask him what movies he wants."

"Shut up buttpipe," Craig growled around the receiver. "Sorry 'bout that, Clyde's being stupid. So what movies do you want?"

Tweek thought about it. Horror movies didn't bode to well with his intense distrust of the dark, but he didn't want to seem like a pussy so he muttered, "_Garden State_?"

"Weak dude, that's a total chick flic!"

"Nuh-uh, it's got—" seeing his mother eye him he changed his direction "—stuff in it."

"Fine," Craig huffed into the phone, giving the impression if Tweek could see he'd be rolling his eyes. "Well do that and two others, and you _better_ tell me why you're late when you get here, got it?"

Tweek broke into a full smile; still protective, even to himself. That was the Craig he knew, not the one that killed Kenny. "Alright, I'll tell you, 'kay?"

"'kay, later dude."

He hung up without saying goodbye; salutations promised death, the ultimate parting, and it was something Tweek avoided purposely. Putting the phone back in his mother's purse he rest his head against the window once more, falling into thoughts before asking:

"Did the testing say I'm Schizophrenic?" Silence was enough of an answer. Breath caught in his throat Tweek closed his eyes tight, wrapping his arms around himself. How could it be? He wasn't crazy. He never tried killing anyone, or attempted suicide. But he was on anti-psychotic pills, neurotics, and anti-depressants. Yet he wasn't crazy.

Right?

Obviously not. This just proved it, tests weren't wrong. The odd behaviour, distrust of government and society, distance he put himself from others, the difficulty it took to become close to someone and the dependency afterward, the hallucinations, it all added up to one thing.

"What's it feel like having a crazy son?" he asked, voice choked. Eavan patted his thigh as she answered:

"It feels wonderful."

---

Tweek and Clyde weren't the only ones staying with the Nommel's that night, two of Tracie's friends were invited over as well. Kizzee was a cute red-head, whose real name was Caolifhionn. She was the Irish stereotype, short and slightly plump, loud, boisterous, could pick one hellavu fight, and could make the toughest prison guard blush with her cursing. Her accent was thick, but one mention of it would result with a foot to the groin and a fist to the eye.

Judith was a whole different matter. Being daughter to Reverend Maxi, she was deeply religious, shy, harmonious, everything the perfect Choirgirl was. Quiet mannered and soft spoken, she never drew attention to herself if helped, unless in the company of Tracie. Then she was devilish, coy, and never shut up.

They all ate dinner among girlish giggles, shrieks, boy-chatter, and spewing beverages out the nasal cavities. On one such occasion Tweek had asked Judith to pass the peas, unfortunately his voice had squeaked dangerously high and "peas" came out as "penis". They'd broken into tedious laughter as Kizzee replied with a shit-eating grin, "Well ya've got yer own, now, and two next to ya! I don't think ya need any o' us girls passin' any penis to ya." Luckily the adults had excused themselves at the "bewbs" incident and didn't have to scold the girl.

Afterwards they decided to watch _Terrence and Phillip Asses of Fire III: Anally Inept_. The girls, finding fart jokes completely immature, left them to their own devices. It was probably best considering how easily amused they were, and the fact Clyde nearly choked to death on a _Cheesy Poof_. In the process Craig got a gummy worm stuck in his nose from laughing so hard while eating it, and Tweek spilled his drink all over his crotch, giving the impression he'd pissed grape soda on himself.

Once cleaned up and snacks were restocked, they started on the second movie, _Garden State_. The girls joined them, on the condition of "no being girls". However, the movie indeed being a chick-flic, they'd broken in many incidents of "awww"s. Clyde didn't complain because of the porn clip, and even Craig was rather fond of it by the mere moral and content, which gave more insight into Tweek's thinking. And of course, seeing "bewbs" was a plus.

It was nearly ten-thirty when they decided to enjoy a slumber-party classic; Bloody Mary.

Judith refused to join in the games, preferring rather to stand in a corner with walls wrapped around her. Her reasoning was seeing, and possibly being touched, by a demonic spirit was sin on her soul; everyone knew, though, that she was afraid of the dark. Tracie didn't seem to mind that her friend wasn't participating, and kept near her dark-haired friend.

Clyde was first. He was heard chanting through the door before a low shriek sounded, and pounding on the door commenced. A few seconds later it was gone. Craig hurriedly opened the door to find his friend missing; Tweek stood back, jittering. The Nommel boy set a firm face and bravely walked into the dangerous bathroom, closing the door behind him.

"Where—where'd Clyde go?" Tweek squeaked, shaking. Kizzee flashed pearly whites as she slammed a fat foot against the door t jam it and grabbed the handle without a reply. Craig's uncertain chanting sounded before silence. And then:

"Oh my God! Let me out, _shitmuthafuckerdamnit!_ Let me out!"

Tweek grabbed for Kizzee to allow access to his friend, but was held back by Tracie. A few more seconds of screaming and the Irish girl jumped away from the door as Craig stumbled out, almost falling on his face had Clyde not grabbed the back of his sweater. The girls broke into laughter at his sweat-drenched face and wide eyes—he was genuinely scared. In moment he composed himself, wiping away at his face as he growled angry curses and kicked Clyde rather hard in the shin for playing along with the charade.

"So Craigy isn't above pissing his pants," Kizzee teased with that obnoxious grin of hers. Miffed he raised his middle finger, to find it in her tiny grasp and yanked backwards, making an audible _cracking_ sound. He whined as she let go and flexed his weapon of choice, finding it relatively unharmed, just stressed at the knuckle.

It was then Tweek was pushed toward the bathroom to repeat the game, this time for real. He dug his heels into the carpet to no avail, instead he found himself with rugburn. The blonde coward in the dark across from the sink and mirror, hands to his face as he backed up against the wall. If it wasn't instinct to keep alert and watching, he'd close his eyes to rid the feeling of the haunt.

"I don't hear ya in there, come on now, chant!" Kizzee said irritably, knocking on the door hard enough to startle the twitching boy. The flame from the white candle placed on the counter top flicked back and forth with his wispy breath, light dancing in the mirror.

"Bloody Mary, B-Bloody Mary," he paused. This was it. If he said it once more a disembodied head would show up and scratch his eyes out. He'd die in Craig's bathroom, how pleasant! But if he didn't, he'd be "chickenboy" all over again. Taking a breath he squeaked, "Bloody Mary," once more and clamped his eyes shut, breath held. Silence answered. He counted the seconds in his head, _eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen…fuck, just open your eyes, Tweek, nothing will be there_.

Taking a deep breath he did just that, eyes focusing on the glass, and let out a shriek. Standing where his reflection normally would be was a male that looked in his mid-twenties, silvery-brown hair framing a stony face. Pointy ears poked out from under his hair, appearing almost bat-like. The figure raised a brow, scarlet, pupiless eyes flashing as he raised a bony hand in greeting. It took several seconds to realize what was wrong with the fingers—the ending joint was replaced with three-inch long claw.

"_Bloody Mary? Childsplay, provoked by fear alone,_" the reflection said, lips drawn back from razor sharp teeth, each one creating a point, calling the creature out as a carnivore. "_Frightened are you? Teething your fingers is hardly healthy_."

Slowly Tweek drew his hands from his mouth, where he'd been chewing on his nails. They dropped to his sides as he took a deliberate step toward the counter. "Curson? I thought you were a fucking bat! Wait, no," he grabbed his hair, yanking in frustration. "You're part of my subconscious, you have no real form."

"_No real form? Vision is as transparent as ever, deceiving not._"

Tweek paced, pulling at his hair harder. "I'm crazy, I get it, it's all hallucinatory."

"_Delusion is grandeur, the mind's falsities; I'm no such being_."

"Oh my God, _stop_ talking like that! Jesus Christ, why do you do that?"

Curson folded his arms across his chest as he frowned, eyelids drifting half-closed. "_You understand the riddles more than something said bluntly. You're mind perceives and solves correctly, instead of dwelling on a double meaning that cannot possibly be. That is why I speak like that._"

"Goody. Now why are you here? I have stuff to do," Tweek grunted, hands dropping once more to his sides. This made no sense, why weren't his friends barging in? Was he asleep, dead? Was time even ticking?

"_It seemed like pretty damn good timing to me, quite amusing as well seeing that look when you opened your eyes—pure gold._"

The blonde opened his mouth to speak, and closed it. The King of all things nasty had a sense of humour, a bad one, but he still did. It was ironic.

"I change my mind, talk weirdly."

Curson sighed, bangs fluttering. "_Choose your poison wisely, there's no stepping back_."

Hm, choices, choices. He could go back to his friends, or sit and talk with a mirror, like that one _Disney_ movie. He groaned as the question formed and escaped him, "Why me?"

Curson cocked his head, pointy ear twitching. "_Elaboration is the key to __clarification_."

"Why _me_?" Tweek squealed. "Out of all of the kids in the world you could pick to haunt, why me? Who did I piss off to get a walking bat-thingit-human-guy following me around?"

Considering his answers the reflection gave a graceful shrug. "_No one_."

"Bull shit! Why do you follow me around then? Dear Lord and Jesus, God, Christ, Mary, and Joseph, why me?"

Curson cringed against the incantations, gritting his teeth at each one. Tweek hardly noticed his behaviour, too intent on a proper answer than a possible fluke with the reflection. "_Chosen not for reason, nor anger, rather adoration; without the outlit, there is no electricity to feed the lamp._"

"Fucking _Christ_, until you can give me a straight answer, _get back in my head_!"

"_If you so wish it done_," Curson said, words twisted to something vile. Whipping to face the mirror, Tweek barely saw as the figure faded. Pain exploded in his head as Curson's mass slammed into his psyche, knocking his sensory system off whack. He couldn't feel himself as he fell to the opening door, only the plummet into his Self, that inescapable black. The tittering laughter filled the void he tumbled in. "_Over my wrath you still are not, as some might say, 'Pleasant dreams'._"

---

It was an amazing struggle to consciousness this time around, with no eternal aid; should've known not to piss himself off, or Curson…of fuck it. He'd made it to the level of the Self where communication was impossible, but he could hear what was going on around him. Some said hearing was the first sense to go; they were wrong on all accounts. Currently he could hear the girls freaking out, Judith sobbing hysterically, Lydia trying to sooth them, while Thomas spoke idly to Clyde. Craig was muttering softly to himself, but to Tweek it all seemed amplified.

"Dude, the chicks are really freaked, Kizzee's even being quiet which is like a sin to her. Bloody Mary is just a joke, it's not real and yet you're unconscious. Damnit, I feel like such a shitty host…especially with that bruise on your forehead from smacking into the floor. I would've caught you if you didn't scare me shitless falling out of the doorway like that! Jesus Christ, you buttpipe, that's not nice…what am I saying? How am I supposed to explain this to your parents, oh fuck me running."

_That_ got his attention. If his parents ever found out about this, he'd never be allowed out of the house again. No friends, no school, no Craig. Without resistance from the depths of his mind, or tittering arguments, Tweek pushed through the spongy outer layer of the psyche, sputtering and coughing as he sat up and slammed his head into whoever was bending over him at the time. Groaning the blonde rubbed at his forehead, feeling the lump Craig had mentioned, silence descending. He opened his eyes and glanced around, finding himself in the Nommel living room, Craig rubbing at his nose with a distasteful look.

Lydia moved first, rushing to his side, in turn shoving her son out of the way onto his butt. She felt his forehead and heart, as if him flinching in pain wasn't enough proof of his well-being. "Honey, honey are you hurt? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he squeaked, voice a croak. "My head hurts."

She gave him a sympathetic look, petting his hair away from the purple horn forming. "Are you sure everything is okay? You don't want to go home?"

Tweek shook his head vigourously. "I don' want to go home, everything is fine, dandy, cheerful, _chipper_."

"What the Hell happened?" Craig asked as he got to his feet, brushing off the seat of his pants.

"Oh..uh…hyperventilation," the blonde answered, shirking under Craig's intense look. He didn't believe it for a second, but held his tongue as his mother rounded the sofa, hand glued of Tweek's hair, and glared at them all sharply.

"No more scary games or movies! And don't you _dare_ give me that look, Craig! I won't have you six watching _Texas Chainsaw Massacre_ with such a scare! Now you all can either go to bed, or watch something a bit more friendly."

In the end they all decided to grudgingly watch _The Lion King_, all curled on the couch in various positions. Having never seen the film, Judith broke into tears at Mufasa's death, nearly tumbling from her perch on the sofa's armrest in the process. A few prods from Kizzee at the sight of Clyde's own sniffed back sobs and she was cheerful again, giggling quietly to herself. Much to everyone's amusement they all sung along to the songs (minus Judith), and even broke into soul-wrenching solos. During _Can You Feel the Love Tonight_ Craig took Nala's part, Tweek Simba (he'd been voted the part, and denying it had only gotten himself into a tickle-war), Kizzee Timon, Clyde Pumba, and Tracie the narrator.

Tweek's words were changed to fit gender, making it all more personal. During which Tracie sang, her brother advanced upon the blonde, now on the plush carpet, looking wearily around as if for escape. It was in vain, though, as Craig pounced, trapping Tweek under his body, crouched on hands-and-knees like the lion he was acting. When he'd mumbled a tender, "I love you," in a rather high-pitched voice, Tweek had shrieked, cracking his nose with the heel of his palm. A look of near hurt passed Craig's eyes as he clutched at his aching nose, mumbling inaudible curses under his breath. Of course, it could have been a play of light that created that pained looked.

_Yeah, that's it, a play of light_, Tweek told himself, once more curled up on the corner of the couch, arms wrapped around his knees. Throughout the rest of the movie he contemplated his host, oblivious of Tracie playing with his hair (now secured in tiny braids running along his scalp). It was funny how fainting in his bathroom could screw him up so much, fiddle with the details of their friendship; it was much like cooking, if he added this spice of changed that heat, what chain of events would occur, what taste would the meat have?

"Come on, dude, we're gonna play spin the bottle," Clyde's stuffy voice called from behind. Tweek glanced around, realizing he'd missed the end of the movie, and everyone was standing in an expecting circle for him around the couch. It took a moment for the words to sink in before Tweek let out a disgusted sound.

"Jesus Christ! That's like, Craig's sister, and her friends! Don't you have a girlfriend?"

"Yeah, maybe when they're older and have, y'know, visible tits we'd play," Craig said absently, pulling the blonde from the sofa.

"And when ya've got a visible dick we'll play!" Kizzee replied haughtily, blowing a raspberry at them as the girls tramped up the stairs to where they'd crash and talk naughtily into the night about boys they liked. Craig rolled his eyes, knowing the routine all too well, and led his friends up the stairs into his room. They plopped into bed, Craig at the head, the other two cross-legged near the bottom.

"I thought you had a date with Bebe, what happened to that?" Craig asked curiously, scratching at his hair.

Clyde grimaced, cracking his knuckles. "Well I did, but Bebe always makes me play this gay game called 'Lambs' when I go over."

"Bebe likes Lambs?" Craig asked in disbelief, green eyes flashing deviously with the newfound information.

"Labs, you mean that _Silence of the Lambs_ ripoff Cartman came up with?" Tweek questioned, hands twitching.

"Yeah, that game. It's so stupid, I don't know why she likes it."

Leaning back into his pillows Craig grinned. "Don't you need a fucking hole to play it? As far as I know, Cartman is the only person stupid enough to dg a hole in his basement, so where does she play?"

"Duh, she hunts down one of those abandoned holes that freaky Mole kid digs; one would think he'd fill them back in when he's done trying to dig his way to Canada, but no, the dumbass just leaves them."

Craig huffed, crossing his arms over his PJ shirt, featuring a muffin talking about "milfs, dilfs, and muffs". It'd been a gift from Kenny, where the poor fool had gotten the cash or the shirt, he didn't care, which was obvious after killing the boy. "That kids is such a loser, fuckin' French pussy. No wonder he's homeschooled, no sensible kid would go near him."

The brunette grinned, leaning over as if it was a secret that no one besides them three should hear. "I heard he _was_ once in public school, but got pissed off and whacked his teacher's nose clean off!"

"Oh—Jesus Christ!" Tweek exclaimed, diving under the sheets, form shaking noticeably. Craig snorted at the behaviour, patting his friend on the back.

"Yeah? Well I heard he was a private school punk, a real ass kisser to God; if only he knew what He looked like."

They broke into giggles, recalling the platypus-hippo-cat crossbreed that was the Big Guy in the clouds. It'd been a pleasant New Year, that one, a mix of seeing the Holy Creator and Stan with boobs making it even more memorable.

It was nearly three in the morning when they settled down to bed, Tweek against the wall, Craig in the middle, Clyde snoring loudly from the opposite side, half-on and half-not. Half an hour into it, Tweek was wide awake, darting glances around the darkened room, afraid to wake Craig who had rolled over and was using his shoulder as a pillow, though it acted as a sponge with the amounts of saliva sliding hot along his skin. That was another reason he was still awake, being drooled on was quite a distraction, coupled with Craig muttering sweet nothings about Red's hot ass, safety pins, and the many uses of vinegar oil. About the time the Nommel boy grumbled to himself how hot it would be for Courtney Love to model nude on a Red Racer car, Tweek decided he had to piss.

Sighing he slid out of bed, over the body of Clyde on the floor, and into the bathroom. His subconscious didn't take form in the mirror, now did any scarred old ladies face as he did his thing, noticing there was a small crack in the mirror. He shrugged; probably from when he fell, or whatever the Hell happened. Flushing he opened the door and bit back a scream, seeing Craig sitting outside, hair askew, hat presumably somewhere on his bed. He gave a weak smile, yawning at Tweek.

"Fucking _God_, you scared the crap outta me," the blonde heaved, raising a jittering hand to his heart, now beating much quicker than normal.

"Mm, yeah, sorry," Craig said slowly around another yawn as he patted the ground beside him. Taking the offer Tweek sat down, knees to his chest, ankles crossed. They sat in comfortable silence, the brunette drifting in and out. Finally he let out a breath. "What happened in the bathroom earlier, Tweek?"

The blonde shuddered, pulling his knees closer. Why did Craig know where it hit the hardest? Or maybe, he was completely oblivious. "Nothing."

"I don't believe you. What happened?"

"_No__thing_."

"What happened?" Craig asked a bit more forcefully, glaring at his friend as if to impel him. Not receiving an answer Craig pushed on. "Tweek—"

"Oh my God, _okay_! It was the gremlins, they jumped out of the sink tap and wanted my spleen! Their plan didn't really work, so they tried anal raping me and gyah! It was horrible, so then they knocked me out, and before they could do either I guess you guys found me. Yhey, arg!"

The sleepy one shook his head, lips quirking at the story, which he knew it was. He had to give Tweek credit, though, he could really weave a nice tale on the spot. He grabbed one of his friend's hands, rubbing soothing circles on the back, noticing the normally well-kept fingernails were bitten terribly. New concern blossomed and he asked, "Is something wrong?"

Of course. There's always something wrong around you. Tweek didn't voice his thoughts, though, instead buried his face in his arms.

"I'm on the pills," he muttered, almost imperceptible, but Craig heard. His rubbing ceased, hand now a warm comfort and nothing more.

"What? Why? Does it have something to do with being late?"

A nod. "I was at the doctors, and shit, I'm crazy! Crazy like all those Goth kids, or what they try and be. I'm the real deal, man, the whole enchilada. It's weird, y'know, knowing that you're labeled by society as 'crazy'. And now I've got all these pills and shit; I'm exactly what I didn't want to be. I'm fucked up in the head already, pills will just make it worse, fuck, fuck, fuck! Christ, it's like, when the Hell will I ever be normal?"

"You are normal," Craig said, mind not recognizing he'd blurted it out.

"And that's why I've got Schizophrenia, right? Why the Underpants Gnomes target me, the government has a conspiracy going on at the Pentagon for _me_, why illness just happens to strike and the bat population grows? Right, that's normal? Why my best friend has this look of doubt, a look that says 'I shouldn't have invited him over', right?"

Craig turned his gaze tot he ground, biting his cheek to keep from shouting. Tweek was stubborn, never letting off of his views, pushing them until someone either broke and was convinced or said "fuck it". He was Socratic in his maneuvers, making sure to answer someone in a question.

He took a breath, exhaling and counted to ten before asking, "So what does this mean?"

Tweek glanced over, chocolate eyes dark and hollow in the dark. He shrugged, letting his eyelids drift closed. "Who knows, we'll see, won't we?"

---

Craig noticed it, the reaction to the drugs. It wasn't immediate, gradually taking Tweek hold in the symptoms. It was exactly how the blonde said, and Craig hated it. As autumn came crashing to the ground with two feet of snow and unbearable cold, Tweek became a medicated-cold, distant being. He hardly spazzed in class, never feel from his chair in a fit of hysterics about dustmites and illicit acts, rarely spoke of world plots against the civilizations of ants, nor really spoke unless addressed. His eye became dull, movements slow an uncertain, instead of the rapid sharpness accustomed to the godly reflexes, shirts buttoned correctly. Every quirk that had made the blonde Tweek had been stripped away by a few bottles of expensive pills.

He wasn't the only one to notice. The children in school gave him peculiar looks, more attention than he had before. The teachers strayed from the subject, distancing themselves from the boy, until Chef and Mr. Mackey were the only ones that really gave a damn. When he saw the Tweak's, Eavan seemed torn between motherly intuition and what the critics said would help, while Richard seemed completely stunned at his son's change.

Complete and utter hate wasn't something Craig was use to. Sure, he got pissed at the other guys and snotty girls, but he wanted to _kill_ Dr. Rizzo for prescribing so many damned pills and saying anything was wrong with Tweek; the Tweak's, for not intervening in the beginning and going to see a psychologist in the first place; himself, for not knowing what to do, what to say; Tweek for not being mouthy and telling the adults what he wanted.

It was a frigid, early December morning hate turned to unconditional confusion.

Like every winter morning the students roamed the halls before bell, or went to class early in an attempt to regain feeling to numb limbs. This Tuesday was no different as Craig plopped down at his desk fifteen minutes before bell, peeling off soaking mittens to rub his hands for frictional warmth. A puddle of ice water dripped from his pants to the tile floor, giving the prison-cell grey linoleum a glistening, almost glasslike effect. In the back a group of girls huddled, playing with each others' hair, but Craig paid them no heed as Clyde shuffled in, cheeks vivid pink, wheezing and took a seat behind him. After an incident involving hot-glue in tied condoms, the Nommel child had been placed in the front, much to his disappointment.

"You alright, dude? You don't sound too good," Craig mused as Clyde gave him the finger and took off his scarf.

"Shut up, jus because I have Strep throat doesn't mean you can make fun of me," Clyde retorted, voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. Craig shook his head, grinning, but decided that pissing off his _bigger_ friend wouldn't be too pleasant. Turning back to the front of the class he watched as the edgy blonde entered the classroom and crossed toward his desk. It as an interesting change in Tweek's medicated personality, but it was only so long before the cold grated the nerves enough to a mild-variant of his normal twitching.

He leaned over the desk, elbows resting in the icy mess Craig's mitts created, though he didn't seem to notice. "We need to talk."

Hiding the concern and gleeful lurch of his stomach, Craig sneered, resting on the desktop in the same manner, but made sure to miss the puddle on hi desk. "I _might_ make some time after school, but you know, I'm a busy man."

"We should talk now," Tweek persisted, normally monotonous voice raising a few pitches for emphasis.

"Well I think—"

He was cut short as Tweek squealed and fell onto his open mouth, lips crushing against his intensely. The blonde jerked away, jumping back nearly three feet, glancing around at the students that had abruptly stopped their chatter to stare at his reddening form. Humiliation, it was a step above nothingness, he had to give credit.

Craig growled deep in his throat at the source that had rammed his fat ass into Tweek, now breaking into tittering giggles. "Oh ho, ho! Did I just spy the gaywads kissing?"

"No, that was your fat ass getting in the way of something you shouldn't," Kyle muttered as he walked to his desk, punching the fat boy in the arm. Cartman hissed his displeasure, waving his hands threateningly at the Jew.

"Ay, I didn't ask no fuckin' Jew, okay Kyle? Jesus Christ, I feel way up hyah while you guys are way down nyah," Eric muttered, rolling his eyes, oblivious to Craig curling and unfurling his fist in a way that suggested he had five seconds to run. Reaching out he grabbed Tweek's wrist, whom had been edging slowly toward the door relatively unnoticed. He yipped, thrashing out of Cartman's grip as if it burned.

At the contact Craig was on his feet, shoving the ninety-three pound boy backwards, sliding over the wetness on the floor into Mr. Garrison's desk. Feet flipping out from under him, Eric fell hard on his butt, smacking his head on the desk in the process. He let out a string of profanities before he set a firey gaze on Craig.

"What the fuck was that for, Nommel?"

"Don't touch Tweek," Craig hissed, voice amazingly calm for the anger that was laced in his posture.

"Ooooh! Only you can touch him, huh? Like only you can make fun of him, or treat him like shit. What is he, your bitch? Take it in the ass, Craig, hit on both sides of the plate?"

His muscles tensed, and Craig found it hard to resist the urge to lunge forward and slam that shit-eating grin into the floor repeatedly. Instead he grit his teeth painfully and raised his index finger, growling a, "One," over the grinding.

Cartman, knowing well what the countdown was for, laughed. "Oh, what's Craiger's gonna do, kill me? Fuckin' hilarious."

"Don't forget he killed me," Kenny's muffled voice warned, though a quick look to the parka'd boy would find him scanning a playboy rather than watching the excitement. As were a group of the boys behind him, huddled closely together to get better views of the half-dressed women.

Another finger. "Two."

"Is Tweek really worth going to jail for? He's definitely got AIDs you know, the way he's been acting," Eric said in a warning tone, eyes following the figure of Tweek dive behind Craig. "Just like Kyle, you know."

"Shut up, fatass!"

"Three."

"Just take your chance and go, Cartman," Stan said from his corner, pinching his nose at his friend's stupidity. "Be glad you're even getting a five-second head start, I would've nailed you on sight."

"Ooooh, big words from Stan Darsh," Cartman mocked, ignoring the trembling fingers shoved in his face. Like Craig really would…

"Four."

..he wouldn't, right? They were cool. Okay, _maybe_ not, but still. If he really did go ape-shit and decide to pummel him senseless, then that proved there was definitely something going on between Tweek and Craig. If not, he was a big fat liar and big fat liars got their penises bitten off by ponies. But then, if so, what did it mean? There was one logical answer, hot butt sex in the boy's bathroom, but Tweek was too paranoid to use public restrooms, and the two best friends hadn't hung out together as constantly as they usually did. A lovers spat, perhaps?

Craig was raising his thumb when Mr. Garrison burst through the door and stopped dead at the sight, mouth agape. He placed a hand on his hip as Mr. Hat waved idly around, Mr. Slave taking up post behind.

"What the Hell is going on here?" With no response from the now-silent classroom Mr. Hat took the opportunity.

"I think Craig was about to kick Eric's ass, Mr. Garrison."

Striding to his desk Ethan muttered, "Well isn't that nice," as he placed his things on the top and faced the students, who still hadn't moved. "Okay you little bastards, get in your seats right now or we'll go over the fundamentals of _The Love Boat_ season three once again."

Not wanting to ever touch the subject again, they hurried to their desk in an attempt to appease the teacher. Mr. garrison, however, smiled cruelly as he grabbed a piece of chalk and raised it to the board. "Anyway, _The Love Boat_ started—"

A collective sigh filled the room as the children scrounged for notes they'd taken thirty-seven times, yet couldn't seem to keep a copy of. It was going to be a long day.

---

Out of the adults, there were two he trusted to be intelligent; Chef, and Mr. Mackey. Everyone else was on his shit-list after the idiotic things they'd done, quite possibly the worst sending them off so they couldn't "kidnap" their own children. Craig sighed as he remembered those four days among the Mongolians, away from the stupidity of adults and media, just he children's friendship and a few brutish men keeping them alive and sane.

Shuffling his feet he nervously tapped on the door, littered with inane posters that really had no business being hung on the councilor's door. With seconds the stick-like man opened it and stood framed in a dull light, brows knitting in confusion.

"M'kay, Craig, I don't believe you got called down here so you can go off to lunch now, m'kay."

Craig scratched at his temple, looking up at Mr. Mackey. "I know, I just came by…to talk."

The councilor visibly startled, raising his brows at the child, instantly knowing something was wrong. Craig never wanted to "just talk", when forced he flip the person off and go about his business as if nothing happened. This change of character was surprising, but Mr. Mackey didn't have the heart to throw him out, despite the protest of his stomach.

"Well come on in then, Craig," Mr. Mackey said, standing out of the way so the slumped boy could shuffle in. He closed the door behind him and crossed to his desk, where he feel graciously onto the chair, and eyed Craig. He seemed flustered, uncertain, and absolutely giddy at the same time. His cheeks were flushed, from cold or otherwise, he couldn't care. "M'kay, what's on your mind?"

"You know how Tweek's on all those medications, and his personality is really different?" A nod. Craig twiddled with his earflaps, the usual nervous gesture of the flipper. "Well he came up to me today, right, saying we had to talk, and I was kinda a jerk about it, but was really worried 'cause he's just alien now and arg."

Mr. Mackey let it sink in before he spoke, the gibberish coalescing to form a comprehensive sentence. "And did you hear him out, figure out what he wanted to say?"

Craig felt his face redden, both from embarrassment and anger. He crossed his arms and sighed loudly before standing and bent over Mr. Mackey's desk in the fashion Tweek had done his. The councilor gave him a look, but didn't argue. "No! Okay, it was like this, Tweek was over my desk like I'm yours, and I was mimicking the position. Cartman waddled in and slammed his fat ass against Tweek, and he fell forward, right? But that happened to be _on my mouth_." He fell back into the chair, freckles standing out noticeably against the red of his skin. "I didn't know who to kill, Cartman, Tweek, myself, or the other kids."

The councilor considered this new information as Craig settled himself down, blush slowly creeping away. "M'kay, you wanted to kill Cartman for touching Tweek and makin' it happen, and Tweek for doin' it—" two consecutive nods "—yourself for bein' the victim and the other kids because…?"

"They were there!" Craig exclaimed, looking upward with a heat in his eyes. At first his mind took it as "they were there to witness the embarrassing event", but soon realized Cartman was excluded as well, meaning that hey were all there at a private moment. He wondered if Craig understood the meaning of such a simple sentence as well, the subject he'd tumbled on, and seeing the boy bite his lip, he decided Craig indeed did know.

"Well, what do you want me to help you with?"

"Everything, Cartman, the kids, Tweek, myself. Ev-er-y-thing."

Crossing his legs and folding his hands on the desktop Mr. Mackey _hmm_ed. He was asking questions that could potentially get him fired, if Craig decided to run to his parents and tell. The answer was all in how he worded it, if he wanted to keep the position as elementary councilor or not.

"First off, m'kay, you can't let other kids get to you, Craig. Killing them, threatening, would get you in a lot more trouble than just blowing them off. You just have to take them in stride, even Cartman. You've got to believe in yourself and tell the other kids to screw off, m'kay? It's the whole 'I am rubber you are glue, whatever you say bounces off of me and sticks to you' theory.

"As for yourself, only _you_ know what's goin' on in your head. But I can tell you my opinion. This age is where puberty sort of sets up its foundation to come crashing down hard on you as a teen, m'kay, so you might be experience mental changes, noticing things about people. Because Tweek is your best friend, and you're around him a lot, it's only natural to see notice changes and certain qualities in him that make him attractive, whether or not you're 'funny'. But you might be feelin' emotions toward him because of it, if this makes you a fag, only you can decide that.

"Now Tweek, I think you should talk to him, see what he wanted. Explain yourself some. If one-on-one seems awkward, try a note; girls seem to find this method easy."

Craig gave a nod as it sunk in. "Yeah, that sounds good." He stood, his own stomach growling dangerously. "Thanks, I appreciate it."

Mr. Mackey offered a smile and wave. "Goodluck, m'kay." As Craig left he sighed; he'd be needing all of the luck he could get.

---

The left corner of the cafeteria, at a table hidden away but an indention in the wall was Tweek's normal seat nowadays. Today he took extra precautions, sitting up against the wall where no one could see him, but he had a view of the entire place. So it was a surprise as Death's playmate slid into the bench across from his, and slipped his hood off, revealing a toothy grin and busted lip, probably caused by Wendy in an attempted to rid his "malicious intent of chesticles". A hand glided upward to his chin in slow, deliberate movements, the other remaining under the table doing only Hell knows what.

"Hi Tweek," Kenny crooned, batting blue eyes at Tweek. The boy twitched, scowling.

"What do you want?"

"Ah, just came to congratulate you on your kiss of Craig, it was pretty hot. Though I can't say it was the best performance ever, I think even Stan yarfing in Wendy's mouth was better."

"I didn't kiss him!" Tweek squealed, burying his face in his hands. This was what he had tried to hide from, the accusations he'd been receiving.

"Your mouth met his, that's a kiss, end of story."

"It wasn't on purpose," he moaned though his hands.

"Yeah, yeah, Cartman's fatass did run into you, so? Alcohol creates a lot of babies and then love, and that's not on purpose either." It was an analogy he didn't yet understand, but soon would out of experience first-hand.

"Go away, Kenny.'

"You're falling for your best friend." This, a statement. Being the kid that was left out of many things due to his lack of money, he'd taken to watching people and how they reacted with each other, noticing subtle hints and touches to mean things. Best friends always seemed to be very friendly, on the border of flaming gay.

Tweek didn't feel up to argue, the point moot, and confusing him as well. He was the living example that medication fucked you up, for the worst.

An intake of breath and a hand on his shoulder. Tweek glanced up to meet Kenny's eyes, instead of devious now soft and compassionate. "Cartman will be coming out of line soon and will screw you over, I suggest you find a better hiding place."

Giving Kenny a look he got up and dashed out of the cafeteria. What was that he saw flashing in those blue eyes, envy?

He surely hoped not.

---

Watching the frozen lake from the cold bank, Tweek sighed, breath creating a fog in the bitter air. He'd trudged to Stark's Pond after lunch, cutting the rest of the day. It was time he didn't care if he lost, annoyance of notes and paper balls, mocking words behind his back was something he would rather strip from his day than keep. Of course, being out in the elements for nearly two hours couldn't be good, and probably insured a cold, but it was fine with him.

_Talk to you after school, normal place._

That was the short note he'd found crammed in his locker in the distinctive blocking writing of Craig's, which fated the rest of the day be spent playing in subzero temperatures waiting. And he did, he waited, what was to come being what initiated the rift between them.

---

The only real advice Cartman had ever given that was plausible stated:

"Eliminate the problem at the source."

That's what Craig decided he needed to do, and such a thing involved confrontation. Recess would have caused too much of a scene considering "the kiss", and of course Tweek couldn't be found. So he voted for after school at Stark's Pond, where the blonde waited with snow-flakes dusted in his hair, giving the honey-colour a lighter look. He whipped around at the approaching footsteps, nearly toppling onto his rear, but didn't shout his usual "Don't kill and/or rape me!" line.

"Hi," he said, standing and waved around a neon-_postit_ note. "I got your message."

Craig shrugged it off, glancing at the ice coating the surface of the lake. "Yeah, I figured that out, buttpipe. So, you wanted to talk, what were you gonna say this morning?"

"Nothing, you go first," Tweek persisted, shaking at his hair, snow falling from it in a shower of glistening droplets. Craig crossed his arms, shuddering against the cold—it was best to get it over with quickly so neither of them got hypothermia.

"Tweek, look, I want you to understand you're a really cool guy and friend, and I'll always be here for you when shit goes wrong, right?" The blonde gave a nod, chocolate eyes hinting nothing. The raven-haired boy sighed, warm breath fogging. "Well, I can't fucking do this. You're doped up on so many medications it's crazy, and it's fucking with me too. I can't be your friend anymore."

Tweek stared at him, the words like a hit from a freight train. Breath gone no words escaped, only a choking sound. After thirty seconds he took a ragged breath and tried to compose himself. "What?"

By now Craig looked uncertain, almost guilty, watching the frozen ground instead of the reaction going on in front of him. "I can't be your friend if you're like this."

"That's…you can't…why?"

"I told you, I can't take you like this. It's too difficult to deal with right now. I'm sorry, really, but fuck you, Tweek."

With that he shoved his hands in is pockets, averting his gaze from the widened eyes, turned and walked away. Tweek, too stunned to chase after, let his outstretched hand fall to his side. Wrapping his scarf tighter around his neck he headed home, lips quivering at the sudden cold he felt. What had just happened? Craig came, broke their friendship, and left. It was as simple as that.

So why did if feel like so much more?

He sniffed, the sudden weight of emotion tiring after two months of nothingness. Why did Craig make him react this way, make him pathetic? After many rejections of friendship, one would think it wouldn't hurt so bad to have _one_ brushed off so casually.

"Fucking Craig," he muttered harshly to himself, voice betraying the anger in a croak. It was his fault he was on so many damn pills anyway, with the constant worry Dr. Rizzo had enforced after suggesting he had undefined feelings for the Nommel boy. Undefined feelings, Hell! They were pretty damn defined in his dictionary.

He yanked at his hair in frustration as he kicked open his door, muttering a soft, "Hello" to the carpet near Eavan and ran up the stairs before either parent could ask what his problem was. Slamming the door closed and locking it, Tweek fell onto his bed, ignoring the fact his wet clothes created icy patches on the sheets. His attention was too engorged out the window on the slate roof of his "best friend's" house a block over, where presumably Craig was.

He growled, tearing his eyes away from the sight. There was no way he could go back to school with this canyon between him and any of the other kids. His mother had brought up the issue of homeschooling in the beginning process of the drugs, but he hadn't taken I seriously. He was still the twitchy kid the other's pretended to hate but really couldn't love without. Now, he was the blonde Goth, second anti-Christ, sonuvabitch with no friends, and one that was a backstabbing hooker.

The choice was obvious.

* * *

**A/N**: Holyshit sorry for the late update, you know how school is, that Neo-Nazi conformist bitch. I don't know how long I plan on keeping the boys children, another chapter or two, and then they've got to grow up where the plot really starts to unravel. Oh yes, hot hot hot.

That story about Curson my parents told me, just I revised it a bit to fit what I need later (aka completely butchered it). His dialogue might be hard to follow for a few reasons, one for Tweek's comprehension, andthe literary devices. Pay attention tohim, he gives great clues :3

Yes...I couldn't help giving Christophe a part. Shutup.

And my reviewers, you know who you are, thankya tons:D


	4. 1 3 Carnage

**Notes:** I know I got the timeline screw up from the real _South Park_ timeline, oh well. And let's jsut say that the mention of Asses of Fire 3 before was like _Star Wars_, how they screwed the production line up. Yeah, that's my excuse. And yes, you'll see a lot of SP:BLU scripting toward the end, once again, oh well :D

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own the title, lyrics weaved in, SP:BLU scripting, characters, yadda yadda. Only snugglywitttle Cur-Cur is mine >3

* * *

1.3 Mental Carnage and Overdue Bloodshed

**car·nage**_n._

1. Massive slaughter, as in war, a massecre.  
2. Corpses, especially those killed in battle.

When friendship fails, what is there? Loneliness, spite, vengeance, hate? Or all of those and more wrapped into a neat package, waiting to blow up in the least (and most) expected place. Rejection is never a pretty subject to tamper with; it leaves egos shattered, confidence vanished completely. In other words, it leaves a pit of dispair and depression. When mixed the medication to rid of any such feeling, the world continues to spin, and people live their lives like nothing ever happened.

---

For two days after, Tweek stayed home from school, sick. He couldn't eat without the sickening churn of having to vomit, nor did he have the will. Instead he stayed in bed, curled in the masses of blankets, restless, wanting to very well die and hating Craig for making him so weak. The hardest question to answer, yet the most commonly asked was causing such confusing and physical pain: _why_?

But then again, if he was in the same position, Tweek couldn't really argue the fact he'd do the same thing. It was childlike mentality; if it hurt or confused you, forget about it. Even as their minds adjusted to the preteen years, it would still be the same scenario, until pain eventually opened a world of pleasure.

Craig was hardly his worries, though. He was just one in a million, but he _was_ the head-hauncho of their gang. What Craig said was law, no question, and the other guys would follow his lead like lost puppies. And eventually the behaviour would overcome the other children, until everyone in the town under the age of twenty-five was against him. Coupled with the decision of homeschooling, his social life was doomed. But what other option was there? Going to school, he wouldn't learn, instead be ridiculed for his differences, and sooner or later turn into a worse version of Butters. That was a worse punishment than being isolated.

The knowledge sunk in the first night, and he cried. Eavan had held him close, singing sweet lullabies, voice strangely accented and soothing. Within the first few minutes the hysterical sobbing and died into quiet sniffs and silent tears as he mumbled to himself the lyrics. Despite the situation, the soft Irish folk songs seemed calming, even though most were tragic love songs.

After an hour the dilemma scabbed over and the tears stopped as Tweek fell into slumber. Eavan put him to bed, to be awaked herself at three in the morning with a panicking Richard clutching at their son's arm shaking her violently into awareness. The child had a hand clamped to his mouth, thick gelluous blood dripping through his fingers onto the white carpet, eyes wide and tearful, face pale and slick with sweat. Before she could even ask what was wrong their son doubled over, hands grasping desperately at his stomach as blood and bile was painted on the carpet.

The next day and a half was spent in the hospital, diagnosed with a stomach ulcer caused by acute stress. Concerned, Eavan tread on the subject Tweek had carefully avoided since announcing his want of being homeschooled. He denied any such connection his condition had with his friends, but Eavan knew better, and called Craig's mother to find out. Lydia had noticed a distinct change in Craig's behaviour, but otherwise hadn't addressed it; afterall, children got into petty fights all of the time. She decided eventually she'd talk to the Nommel boy herself, but would wait until everything settled. The job she was more inclined to was making sure Tweek was once more healthy, and could show him his world wouldn't dissolve without his friends.

However, when the doctor announced caffeine had to be taken from Tweek's diet to strengthen the lining of his stomach, he might as well have died right then.

---

He was released early Friday morning and got the day to mope around, twitching and shouting obscenities about the government. The doctors at the hospital had gotten into a heated argument with Dr. Rizzo over the phone about the medication he was on, and eventually was taken off of them all until his stomach could heal properly. Tweek had celebrated appropriately by skipping up the driveway to the door, shaking his tail feathers and twirling in circles, until he hit a patch of ice and slipped onto his face that is.

Saturday he awoke with a sore nose, grumbling harshly under his breath as his curtains were thrown open, sending a wave of morning light into his face. He buried further under the covers, curling into a ball as if he'd somehow be protected from his mother's cheerful bantering.

"Tweek honeykins, you've got to get up, we're going to visit someone today!" Eavan sang cheerfully, stepping carefully across the floor to keep from making too much noise and tugged on the plaid comforter.

"Iduncare," he mumbled from under the layers of blankets, tugging back until it became a half-hearted game of tug-o'-war.

"Tweeky, I'll drag you there in your pajamas if you don't get up."

Growling he rolled over and poked his head out from under the blankets, squinting into the sun to find his mother standing over him with a coy smile. Throwing off the sheets he shuddered against the sudden cold and frigid winter air that seeped in through the closed window.

"Jesus Christ, it's freakin' freezing! I'll get hypothermia going out there, who is that important?"

Crossing to the closet she opened it slowly so her son didn't go shrieking out of the room and ruffled through his clothing; it was a secret fetish of hers, picking out outfits for people. As she examined a jade jacket with cream-coloured faux fur she answered, "Oh, one of the homescholed children, honey, so you can understand the program a bit better."

Pulling on the heavy-duty khaki jeans, and black long-sleeved shirt he snorted. "The homeschooled kids are now public schooled—gyah!"

Eavan bit her cheek to keep from laughing at her son, trying to pull the sleeve of his brown sweater over his head. Smiling broadly she pulled it off and helped him adjust the turtleneck the correct way. Giving her a sheepish look he went about tugging on two pairs of socks and his winter boots.

"Yes, the Cotswold children are now public schooled, but I wasn't referring to them. Anyway, we already know Mark hated it, and little Rebecca was utterly in love with being isolated," she said with a short laugh as she helped Tweek into his jacket and zipped it up for him. He pulled on his mittens and grabbed a black fluffy toboggan with cat ears sewed on for decoration, something he only wore if his ears were threatened with the prospect of frostbite.

"Then who?"

She smiled, ushering him out of the room with soft shoves. "Oh, you'll see dear. Go downstairs and get your scarf and the keys, alright? I'm going to head your father off before he goes to work."

Tweek sighed as he toed each stair before tramping down them and did as he was told. Did he really want to go meet some stuck-up homeschooled kid? Not particularly, but did he have a choice? Absolutely not.

Cramming the keys into his pocket he darted glances around and edged into the kitchen, as if it was a sin. Tongue between his teeth he stood on his tippy-toes and searched the counter blindly for some sort of snack. If he knew his parents correctly, sitting out in front of the third coffee pot was always a box of Granola, if only—"Chyes!" he smirked, knocking the box onto the floor. Grabbing it up he took one of the bars and ripped the foil open with his teeth before skipping back into the hallway, grinning at his accomplishment. He stopped dead, almost missing a step and tripping at the sight of his parents…_kissing_.

"Mom, Dad! Ew, gross! Jesus Christ, you'll get AIDS, or pregnant! Oh God, we can't have another kid, there's not enough _air_ for that! Gyah, why didn't you guys _think_?"

Richard grinned boldly as he placed hands on Tweek's shoulders, stopping him from bouncing up and down. "Now Tweek son, your Mom isn't pregnant. Why would you think otherwise?"

"Because you were," he shuddered despite the layers of clothing, "_kissing_, and that's gross, and so is pregnancy, so it all _fits_."

Richard shook his head and fluffed Tweek's hair despite the protest and mumbles of transmitting AIDS. Leaning down to kiss his son's forehead he was smacked in the face with flailing limbs and glared out harshly. He just flashed coffee-stained teeth at the pouting boy. "Have fun with your new friend, alright Tweek? And Eavan dear, give him a little talk, okay?"

The woman nodded briefly as she put on her coat and took Tweek's hand, leading them both out into the garage. Sliding hurriedly into the seat Tweek set the heater, twiddling with knobs and slides so when Eaven turned the ignition the hot air would immediately begin its tedious job. They sat in comfortable silence as the heater whirled, engine warming up, Tweek humming _Jingle Bells_ under his breath.

Looking through the rearview mirror at him Eavan sighed. "Tweek honey, I think we need to talk about a few things."

Cocking his head he looked up at her, ringing his hands nervously. "Like?"

"Well when two people are in love they—"

"I know about sex, Jesus Christ Mom!" he shouted, eyes clamping shut as a chill racked his body, cheeks flushing at the topic set out for them. Why couldn't his Dad explain this to him? It seemed _impure_ for his mother to be spouting about sexual relations.

"Then you know that's how pregnancy occurs, yes?"

"Yes! The man sticks his fireman in the woman's china and nine months later after becoming the size of an elephant the woman is a mother. I _know_. But no kid wants to see his parents, or any adults for that matter, kissing!"

She smiled smugly at that, considering the teens that delved in porn. "It's just what people in love do, honey."

Yanking at his hair in thought he _hmm_ed. "So I should kiss my friends on a regular basis?"

"Not that sort of love, that's different than pure emotional love."

"Gyah, what is love then?"

Looking uncomfortable she turned left on the main street leading into Windtrea, the neighborhood her friend lived in. "It's different for everyone, there is no one definition. Some people believe it a chemical reaction, others feel magic, then there are some that believe love no know bounds be it age, distance, race, gender, social class, anything."

"Oh. Then how do boys have sex with each other? There is no china, so there can't be any babies."

Coughing politely Eavan turned into the well kept driveway of a peach house and shut off the heater and engine. She turned to stare hard at the curiosity held in those chocolate eyes gained by his father and shook her head. "When you're older I'll tell you, okay?" Without waiting for an answer she hopped out of the car and strode toward the front door. Grumbling, Tweek followed, making sure to avoid the patches of ice and snow that had cascaded onto the sidewalk.

As the door swung open he stopped dead, the visage of a woman a few years younger than his mother appearing. Dark hair framed her face, held back by a white headband so the sparkling grey eyes were very visible against the pale olive coloured skin. Dressed in a navy sweater and long crème skirt she seemed more dressed for a day of staying indoors without company, but as she grinned and hugged his mother Tweek knew better. He mumbled a, "shit," as the woman ushered them in, took their coats, and insisted they make themselves comfortable.

Seeing his mother take off her snowboots he followed suit, leaving them in the side closet by the door, feeling somewhat out of place in such a cultured home. Knickknacks and oil paintings littered the walls, along with miniature statures of woman angels. And everywhere he looked, there was something written in French. He faked a smile looking up at the woman, fingers entwining at the hem of his jacket.

"And you must be Tweek, ah, 'ow I 'ave 'eard so vairy much about you! I am Madame DeLorne, and et ez such an honour to finally meet you!"

Tweek smiled wearily, offering a hand. The accent he knew instantly, and as far as he knew the only French family living in South Park consisted of this woman, and The Mole. He'd ehard the horror stories associated with the crazy chain-smoking Frenchman and _did not_ want to be 'friends' with him. It was on his list of things he never wanted to do, the two above it being getting shot and flayed.

"Ah—it's—it's nice to meet you too," he squeaked at Yvette, snatching his hand back. She smiled as if satisfied that she heard him speak.

"Good, good, but you are not 'ere to chit and chat wiz me, now are you? _Non_, you are 'ere to talk to my son. Christophe! Christophe, come down and meet our guest!" She placed hands on her hips, lips pursed as if expecting some coy, rude remark to be thrown down the stairwell. And when there wasn't, she seemed surprised. "_Christophe, sil vouz plaît, descendent ici._"

Christophe was more intimidating than he'd imagined as he slunk down the stairs, a hand grasping the railing—tall, yet slender; chocolate hair unkempt, spiked and matted; cameo gear giving him an air of authority and willingness, steel-toed boots dust encrusted and worn, a baldric strapped across the narrow chest, shovel blade threatening over his shoulder. What really made him look menacing were the blue eyes, tinged with gold, flecked in violet and brown. The mix was startling, but the hard look he gave Tweek while he looked the blonde up and down caused him to freeze, a sneer drawing his lips back from nicotine-coloured teeth.

"_Maman_, what ez Twitchy doing 'ere?"

"Christophe! Be nice to our guest, now come 'ere right now!"

The Mole sneered and continued to slide down the stairs, clunky boots hardly making any noise, alerting anyone that cared that he was either rolling his weight with the steps to evenly distribute, or he was walking on the arch of his feet. At the bottom he slid under his mother's arm, muttering an inaudible curse under his breath.

With a nudge from Eavan, Tweek took a step forward, eyes darting for an escape route. "Ah, er, gyah—Hi?"

Christophe licked his lips, sporting a disinterested look. "'ello, Twitchy."

Yvette clapped her hands together and gave Christophe a shove. "Now why don't you show 'im up to your room, _cherie_? Talk and get to know each ozer, yes? Eavan and I will be chit and chatting in ze living room, okay boys?"

Christophe rolled his eyes, huffing as the woman walked away. "Yes, yes, make me come down only to force me back up, zank you vairy much _Maman_." Turning on his heel he headed back up the stairs, growling, "Follow me, Twitchy, but do not touch anyzing or I'll fucking rip your balls off."

Tweek swallowed hard, tempted to dash off to the adults, but was curious as to how Christophe lived, and followed him up with several steps between them—despite his interest, he was going with "safe" over everything else. After all, even though his mother was nice and the pink walls betrayed the mercenary's intimidating behaviour, it still was The Mole.

Kicking open a door with scuff marks on it, Christophe led them into what appeared to be a normal nine-year-olds room, painted a rich brown with charcoal carpeting. The bedding and curtains were deep green, the other furniture made out of a black wood that shined red. The walls even had several posters; John Lennon, Kyo, and a rather random Salvador Dalí artpiece. However, the ropes, knives, medical supplies, laptop, other assorted weapons and goods gave the room an eerie, nearly torture-device feel, and the hint of blood hidden under the vanilla _Glad plug-in_ was doing nothing but supporting the idea.

Tweek jumped as the door was slammed closed and whirled around to face Christophe. The brunette ignored him as he went about kicking various items under the bed or into the closet in a poor attempt at tidying. When he was obviously satisfied with his work he finally gave Tweek his full attention with a frown.

"I'm going to tell you right now, I'm ze fuckin' slave driver; when I say 'jump', you fuckin' do et wizout question, when I ask you a question, you answer to appease me or I'll zrow a dart at your eye, understand?" Tweek gave a quick nod, wanting to desperately keep his eyes in tact. "Alright zen, let's test zis, yes? Why are you 'ere, Twitchy?"

Cracking his knuckles he glanced around. "Mom wanted me to talk to someone homeschooled to get a feel for it, I swear, that's it! Jesus Christ, not my eyes!"

Christophe cackled, lips turning into a teeth-baring smile as Tweek shielded his eyes. He plopped down on his bed, biting his cheek to keep from laughing at the whimpering and lay down, head over the edge so the world was upside-down.

"So you want to know about ze 'omeschooling? Et's sheet. Sure, et ez better zen sitting in a classroom wiz a bunch of ozer sheetheads, but et fucks you up, sets off ze socialism aspect of life. I wouldn't recommend et unless you 'ave zings you can do in ze meantime."

"I have no choice," Tweek murmured, glancing down at a stain on the floor.

"So why 'aven't I seen you wiz ze boy zat likes to flip people off? Feuding?"

"No reason." He looked up in time to see a play dart flying at him, the tip metal and very sharp looking. Squealing he ducked, or rather threw himself flat on the floor, the dart stuck in his hair. He glanced up at the grinning face of Christophe, eyes wide at the knowledge this kid was fucking crazy. "Jesus Christ, what was that for?"

"Ze answer wasn't vairy appeasing, Twitchy, now try again; why 'aven't I seen you wiz ze flipper?"

Turning to face the wall Tweek closed his eyes and sighed, ignoring the intense stare he was gaining from above. "I'm _different_ and Craig doesn't like that, okay? Happy?"

Turning over on his stomach Christophe reached a hand downward, plucking the dart from the blonde's hair, entwining a lock between grimy fingers in the process. "Ah, so 'e does not approve of change, not many do. Et causes unstableness, lack of security, and many just do not wish to tread zere."

"I don't fucking need you to tell me that!" Tweek snapped, bolting upright, and slammed his fist into Christophe's astounded face. At impact a _crack_ resounded in the silence and blood flowed from the brunette's swollen lip. After the initial shock Tweek lowered his gaze, clutching the bottom of his sweater with shaking hands. "I'm—I'm sorr—"

But it was too late for apologies. Howling Christophe was on him, slamming the blonde to the floor roughly with his foot, only to grab him by the collar of the shirt and shook him violently. Tweek clamped his eyes shut, gasping as tattered fingernails bit into the skin through the heavy cloth. Feeling one hand pull away and the other tighten, he opened his eyes to see a clenched fist hurtling toward his eye. Time seemed to crystallize as Christophe yelled a foreign curse as he let go of Tweek completely and smacked him hard with his knuckles. Letting out a shriek of dismay the blonde fell back onto the floor, hands scrambling at his now throbbing eye.

"What on Earth is going _on_ in 'ere?" Yvette shouted, slamming the door open. The two adults took in the sight, Tweek on the floor whimpering behind his hands, Christophe standing over him, seething, blood falling onto the carpet from his lip. Eavan let out a gasp and fell to her son's side, grabbing his hands and pulled them away, so the extent of damage could be seen. His eye was now swelling and painted in a colourful bruise rainbow, a small cut seeping ooze and blood above his eyebrow from a ring the French boy wore. "_Christophe_!"

As if realizing just then the adults had entered, Christophe slowly turned to face his mother, movements slow and deliberate. He shook with build-up rage, and now fright at seeing his mother's smoldering look. He lowered his hands, fist curling and unfurling at his thighs, gaze a little left of his mom's,

"Christophe, what 'appen 'ere? _What 'ave you done_!"

Tweek lifted his head, catching Christophe's flashing gaze, knowing very well in that instant the French boy wouldn't tattle on him. He gulped as Noémie advanced on her son, knowing he couldn't let Christophe take all the blame and not have a guilty conscious.

"I-I hit h-him fi-first," he stuttered, biting his lip in a desperate attempt to seem smaller. Eavan brushed his bangs from his forehead, calculating his response, knowing Tweek wouldn't lie out of fear or consequence.

"Is this so, pumpkin?"

"I-I didn't mean to, I-I just sn-snapped! I'm s-s-sorry, r-really, I di-didn't m-me-mean to…"

The French woman threw Tweek a sympathetic look, a small smile forming on her lips. "Et ez alright, Tweek darling, Christophe _knows_ better zen zat." She turned to face Christophe, eyes narrowing, a finger stuck in his face like a disobedient dog. "Did ze zerapy teach you nozing? Do we need to continue wiz et, increase sessions? I zought you _learned_ to keep under control, you were doing so _well_, _what went wrong_?"

The Mole stared at the floor, eyes hidden by frothy hair. Always disappointed, he always felt he was a burden, or surprise puppy not wanted with the tone his mother held. He let out a shuddered sigh, and if Tweek didn't know better, he would've thought the brunette in tears.

"_Je suis désolé, Mamen, je n'ai pas—_"

"Do not apologize to me, I am not ze one you 'it!" she hissed, smacking him softly on the cheek with the back of her hand. Christophe made a noise, a cross between a whimper and grunt as he turned to face Tweek, raising his head slowly. The blonde got to his feet, intimidated on the ground under the hard look of The Mole, though kept his hand in the firm grasp of his mom's.

"I am sorry for 'itting you, I don't know what came over me," he grumbled, outstretching a hand that shook. "Forgive me?"

Tweek looked it over, grimacing slightly at the short, cracked, dirt encrusted finger nails, a breeding ground for germs. Grudgingly he shook The Mole's hand, pulling out of the grasp a little quickly, resisting the urge to wipe it on his pants. "I forgive you," he finally said, though it seemed all for naught. "And I'm sorry."

"Unf."

Yvette placed a hand on her son's head, fingers entwining in the mess of hair as she smiled apologetically at Eavan. "I am terribly sorry about what 'as 'appened, I do 'ope you are not too upset wiz us about et."

Eavan squeezed Tweek's hand while she pet at his hair as well. "No, it's quite alright, dear. Boys will be boys."

"Yes zey will, apparently. Per'aps zey should stay apart for a while?"

"I agree, until they calm down some they should stay away from each other."

Tweek felt his stomach drop at such a thought, though he was completely unsure as to why. He glanced to the scowling Mole, cocking his head to see the brunette better through his one, not throbbing eye. Despite the furrowed brows, crossed arms, predatory-like stance, and snarl, he seemed lost, _lonesome_.

"Let me walk you two to ze car," Yvette offered, ushering them into the hallway. She turned, not hearing the scuffling o boots and eyed her still son. "Are you going to come and say good-bye to our guest, Christophe?"

"Good-byes are for God fucking pansies," he muttered, glancing up just in time to see his mother's boiling look and hand coming down on his face. He yelped as her palm brushed his lip, right-cheek stinging as blood rushed to the surface of the skin. He lowered his gaze instantly, staring at his mother's black slippers instead of the hard grey eyes.

"I'll talk to you later about zis," Yvette hissed, closing the door in his face with force and smiled tiredly at the Tweaks. Tweek clutched his mom's hand tighter, seeing the visage of a Hell-spawn demon standing before him, complete with horns and fangs, while the red lipstick increased the picture of blood. "I'm sorry about zat, I do not know what 'as gotten into 'im today!"

"It's quite alright, Yvette," Eavan said kindly as they reached the bottom of the stairwell, retrieving their coats and boots. As Tweek reached hurriedly for the door she said, "Do call, I'd love to get together with you again."

Yvette kissed her on both cheeks and smiled. "Blessed be, stay safe."

Trudging into the snow, wind brisk and icy, Tweek shuddered. There was no way in Hell he was going back willingly with _that_ woman in the house.

---

After dinner Tweek was sent up to bed, grounded for three days, but he didn't mind. With no friends there was nothing he was really missing out on in the outside world. That wasn't the problem, though, he was too preoccupied curled on the bed, nestled in a corner to keep view of the room, trying to decipher the mystery of Christophe DeLorne. As the sun drifted behind the Rocky Mountains, casting a pink tinge across South Park, the stars glittered in the sky. _Arcade Fire_ played softly from the CD player, making concentration easier.

Christophe was in therapy, but for what? Something to do with keeping in control, but of what? His temper? That had to be it, which then escalated into physical harm, and perhaps yelling. But _why_ did he lose control, and why did he need therapy for it?

Tweek sighed, pulling the sheets farther to his chin, and turned to look out the window. The sky had melted into a stunning blue colour, wispy vibrant pink clouds stretched across the vast expanse like fluff pulled apart. The stars were brighter, twinkling mercilessly, the Northern Star dancing brilliantly behind the strenuous clouds. It reminded him of Christophe's eyes, how they warped colours depending on his mood; lightening when angry, golden brown standing out more, and darkening drastically, coloured with violet when upset or scolded. _Lonely_.

Which brought on another bought of questions; why was he homeschooled in the first place? Were the rumours true, had Christophe whacked off his teacher's nose, or had he done some horrible deed at private school? Why did the other kids avoid him so, start such silly scandal? More importantly, why had _he_ listened? Of course, being punched in the eye on the first meet wasn't something he particularly loved, nor looked forward to in the future.

Future, why did he consider Christophe a part of his future? Did he _really_ want to be friends with him, in some twisted, Curson-induced part of his mind? Did he see something in the French boy that had potential, that wouldn't dick him over?

"_Friendship weaved in violence, wrenching pain; acceptable, dare you not say_?"

Tweek groaned at the answer, yanking on his hair hard enough to tear strands out. He'd had a mind of his own for so long, hearing the snickering purr of Curson was unnerving.

"Gyah, fucking Christ I thought you were dead!" he moaned, falling back into the pillows, clawing at the bedsheets to relieve tension.

"_Death hails as legion, merry meet, hardly! He is as you are, pretty treasure among a collection._"

"I swear, as soon as I get better I'm taking the pills again if it keeps you away from me," he muttered softly, shutting his eyes.

"_Ice yourself, numb from cold? Acceptance you wish, but none shall be grant, either gift from the 'Mole' or Luffins._"

Tweek had to chuckle at the nickname given to Craig, taken from his middle name, Louis. It was a particular hot, humid summer day the gang had been bored out of their mind at Lake Jefferson, and decided they'd just start saying really _really_ gay pick-up lines, and somehow "Would you like to butter my muffin, Luffins?" was incorporated into the game. From then on out Craig was known as Luffins.

"Be a lot better than arguing with myself," he said, rolling his eyes and sat up as a knock sounded on his door.

"Tweek, Tweek are you still up?"

"Yeah Dad—gyeh—come in."

Richard poked his ginger-haired head into the door, smiling softly at Tweek, trying to untangle himself from the bedsheets. Crossing the floor he grabbed the blankets, pulling them away from his son's face and sat on the edge, pale eyes appearing like velvet.

"Your mom told me what happened today." Tweek flinched, looking down at his lap, knowing well what his father was implying. "Why'd you hit the DeLorne boy?"

"Oh God, Dad, he just—he just reminded me of everything! That I'm different, that everything has changed, and he was like the fuckin' portrait of a tempermental snappy Craig, and just—gyah!"

"Tweek, calm down," Richard said sternly, placing a warm hand on his shoulder, seeming to burn through the cloth. "One thought at a time, speedy. What does Craig have to do with this?"

Biting his lip Tweek curled his fist, cursing himself for mentioning it. He'd forgotten he'd yet to tell his parents about that little incident, and what was really wrong with him.

"Craig doesn't like change, and, and he called us off _forever_ man," Tweek squealed, wringing the blankets in his hands. Richard raised his brows, eyes widening slightly at the wording. Seeing his expression, Tweek blushed furiously and slapped him on the knee, grunting at such a thought. "Not like _that_, he called us off being friends, and 'cause he's the head dog that means _I have no friends anymore_."

Mr. Tweak gave him a coffee-stained smile and patted him on he shoulder. "Well you've always got coffee in the morning, like a lover's sweet caress it—"

"Dad, the fuckin' metaphors!"

"Oh, sorry son, and watch your language." Richard rubbed his head sheepishly as Tweek twitched, vibrating the bed. "What about the DeLorne boy, why not be friends with him?"

Tweek snorted, looking up to his father with a brow quirked, the movement hurting his swollen eye. "Christ, and get hit again? No way, dude." Crossing his arms he drew his legs to his chest, chin resting on his knees. "Dad, why does the Mole's mom hit him?"

Shifting uncomfortably Richard cleared his throat, a hand running through his course, ginger curls. How was he supposed to explain that? "You see, Christophe was—is his father's son. Yvette finds it difficult to deal with, and hates how Christophe acts, and tries to keep him in line, or rather, revert him back to his old self. She's disappointed in how he acts, and herself for letting it happen."

"So she doesn't love him?"

"No, Yvette loves her son very much, she just doesn't understand how to particularly show it." Seeing his question, Richard shook his head. "They've been through a lot, speedy, just drop it."

Tweek sighed as his father ruffled his hair and got up, closing the curtains and increased the heat. As Richard went to plug in the nightlight, Tweek bit his lip and said, "I want to try. To-to be friends with him. I want to learn why they all hate him. _I want to not hate him_."

Richard hit the switched, flashing a gentle smile from the doorway. "I hope you do, I'm sure you'll teach each other quite a lot. Goodnight Tweek."

---

A week in a half steadily passed, with it bringing a snowstorm, covering the ground in three feet of snow and slush. The temperature had dropped considerably—how that was even possible it took wonders to understand—and a breeze had picked up, brought on by the Canadian front. Loose snow floated through the air in the torrent of winds, needle sharp to exposed skin, rubbing it raw in mere minutes. Overall, it was a gloomy, depressing wasteland.

This, however, didn't damper Tweek's joyous temperament. School lessons began, most held online while his mother watched over, lecturing on several things needing to be covered by the program as classes went on as normal. At first the schedule had been difficult to pick up on, seeming tedious, but as the days went on it became routine and easily adaptable. At first he'd complained about having school every day of the week (Sunday classes in the afternoon and shortened, due to sabbath), but knowing he'd get a week off after three weeks was satisfying.

His stomach healed three days after being sucker punched, allowing him to once again swallow his horse pills, but he did so enthusiastically, much to his parents' dismay. However much emotion was stripped on them, it was better than the incessant babble of the King of Deceit. And, quite truthfully, it gave him some for of sick gratification knowing he had power over the Bat King. But Tweek knew Curson lay curled in his own private layer of his psyche, chained to a remote corner so he couldn't wander. He could feel the mental tug when the Bat tried to escape the clutches or the neurotics, and the swelling anger that occasionally flashed across his vision in the form of red. Otherwise, Curson remained quiet and unknown, trapped. And it was during such times Tweek would lay on his bed and delve into his psyche, to the corner Curson occupied and would sit, taunting the demon. Occasionally he created weapons, barriers, anything to perhaps intimidate the otherwise unimpressed Bat King. And it was such acts that caused Curson to draw back his lips from pointed, yellowed teeth as Tweek was sent spiraling back into Reality and Awareness, showing who was _really_ in charge.

Christophe never left his thoughts, since the night he'd talked with his father. Richard had yet to tell his wife of what happened behind closed doors, and Tweek wasn't going to volunteer information unless asked. At first he didn't comprehend why his dad would keep silent about it, until he realized Richard wanted to see the reaction Eavan would have knowing Tweek _wanted_ to work something out with a boy that very well meant harm. It showed signs of maturity doing so, and even that his paranoia and fear of pain and rejection was lessening. Secretly Tweek thought his dad was just proud and showing off that Dr. Rizzo really _did_ know what he was doing, but he never voiced his opinion.

The morning he'd trotted down the stairs to deliver the message that he wanted to go see Christophe, Eavan was astonished. It wasn't like her son to be straightforward about anything, and to want to confront the person most likely to kill him? Absolutely preposterous! The first thing out of her mouth was the infamous question, the unanswerable: _why_? After a briefing she'd agreed, only if he stopped drinking coffee with the pills.

It was a small sacrifice for friendship.

---

Sidestepping patches of slick ice, Tweek hurried to the door, pulling his hat down around his ears, hands stuffed fruitlessly in his coat pockets as the wind ravished around his body, chilling him despite the layers he wore. South Park truly was a desolate place when it was colourless and cold, and sometimes he stopped to wonder why anyone would dare live in the town, or even Colorado for that matter with such unruly conditions. But he had to admit, he couldn't see living anywhere else, let alone somewhere it didn't snow for eight months out of the year.

Not wanting to deprive his hands of their warmth, he banged his head against the door, yowling at the impact on the cold wood, and the now tingling sensation spreading on his forehead. He glanced around the street, seeing no children out (though they were most likely in school), or cars. His mother remained in the car, waiting to see if the French family was even at home, considering Tweek had been in such a rush they didn't have time to call before hand. Jumping back and forth on his feet he hoped Christophe was home.

A metallic _clink_ echoed behind the door before it was opened, slamming against the wall as the wind caught hold of it. Looking sleeping and shivering Christophe looked down on him in surprise, squinting against the sudden cold, but he didn't seem to want to budge from the doorway.

"What are you doing 'ere?"

"I wanted to apologize again…I've felt r-really bad! And…and I think we could be friends, y'know. We're r-really alike, and I-I think it could work. We're both outcast and no one likes us, so why not st-stay together? I m-mean, what choice do we have, _who_ do we have?"

"No one."

"Exactly! We need each other more than y-you think…HOLY FUCK IT'S COLD!"

Christophe's lips twitched into a small smile as he stepped out of the way and motioned the shivering blonde in. Tweek yelped at the invitation, turning and waved to his mom before running indoors, hands now successfully numb as Christophe called out, "_Maman_, we 'ave guest."

Tweek stopped dead, eyes widening. "Oh Jesus, I-I just barged in without being asked! Oh God, oh God, oh God—"

"Shut up before I staple your mouz closed and we fall back to square one," Christophe said with a sadistic yellowed grin, bushy brows cocked upward. Tweek bit his lip and gulped, nodding, while Yvette waltz in from the kitchen, phone held limply in a hand. She seemed taken aback, but not too surprised to see him standing, layered in winter clothes on the small section of tile.

"Tweek, darling, your muzza called from ze car and told me you were 'ere, but I did not believe! After what 'appened, I cannot understand why you would willingly walk into ze wolf's lair, but oh, I am so glad zat you 'ave! You are such a sweetie, _petit fils_, why 'ave you done et?"

"I want to be friends," Tweek replied uncertainly, ringing his hands as they tingled from the heater's warmth.

"Isn't zat nice, Christophe!"

The Mole snorted, nodding to appease his mother, though he wouldn't describe it as "nice", but rather "astounding". No one had tried to understand and _communicate_ through the stubbornness besides his one other friend, Gregory. Maybe it was just a blonde thing.

"Why don't you two go up to chit and chat? I am sure you boz would love to get to know each ozer better now! Up, up, and Christophe, be nice!"

Stripping off his coat, scarf, and boots, Tweek set them in the closet and skipped up the stairs after Christophe, frustrated at how the brunette took two at a time. Shaking it off he ran to catch up, walking into Christophe's room and plopped down on a newly added cameo beanbag chair next to the headboard, while The Mole sat amiss the pillows. Tweek watched as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from under his pillow and lit one up, the smell of tobacco curling his nose as Christophe took a deep drag and let out a breath lovingly.

"How can you smoke?" Tweek shrieked. "It's sick!"

"_You're_ sick."

"…Point taken."

Smiling cockily around the cancer-stick a long, slender finger pointed to Tweek's head. "I like your 'at."

Blushing furiously the blonde yanked it off, shoving it under his butt as if it didn't exist. How has he forgotten to take off the silly thing? "It keeps my ears warm, shut up," he hissed, embarrassed. Christophe just chuckled.

"I was being serious, I like ze 'at. Zat ez somezing you 'ave to work on, you're self-conscious paranoia. Confidence ez ze key, Twitchy."

Tweek gave a brief nod as they fell back into silence, Christophe nibbling the end of his cigarette wetly, tapping the wall with mud-encrusted nails. Yanking on his hair the blonde asked, "Do you have any friends?"

Christophe gave a nod, putting out the smoking stick in an ashtray next to the wall. "Gregory Freemont, you might 'ave 'eard of 'im, I zink 'e goes to your school." Seeing Tweek's bobbing head he continued. "We went to zis private school togezer for a few grades, when I first moved 'ere to America. 'e was interested, oh, you could tell 'e wanted to ask a bizarre of questions about my native 'ome, France, and multitudes of ozer crap. He stared a little bit too much, so 'e got shot in ze eye wiz a rubber band.

"But nooo, zat did not appease 'im, and we got into an argument, that escalated into a free-for-all brawl. We boz got called to ze guidance councilor's, principle's, and zey agreed on two weeks of detention. Gregory, he wouldn't let it go and continued to ramble off questions, demanding why, and I 'umoured 'im by saying et was because 'e was staring. 'e 'ad none of zat and wanted to know ze real problem. 'e was ze first American to actually care and want to understand, so we clicked, despite constant arguing and fights, and we are still friends. What about you, Twitchy, do you 'ave any of your own?"

He could have lied, bullshitted the French boy, but that wasn't his style. Frowning he shook his head. "No, no one is my friend."

Instead of asking "why", the brunette just _heh_ed, running a hand through his greasy hair. "Yes, my muzza told me you're on ills for craziness and it's 'ad adverse affects on friendships. But zat ez alright, az I see et, we're all born insane and remain zat way until we find somezing to keep us sane, and we go insane wizout et. Ze doctors, zey love to 'umour us by giving us pills to make et seem like we're going to get better, but _non_, zey make us worse. Oh well."

Tweek looked up at the brunette oddly, a twitch in his eye irritating. Christophe was strange, but rather informed in his opinions and ideas, and he didn't seem to be the judging type unless it effected him directly. Silence descended once more before he asked, "Do you, like, Jesus Christ, do anything for fun?"

Sitting up Christophe looked over the edge of the bed, crossing his legs Indian-style. "Well duh, you silly bimbo, I dig 'oles, I plot, I go out in ze snow and 'ave fun, or 'ike up ze slope into ze grove be'ind Stark's Pond. I play video games, _non_ I take that back, I play _DOOM II_, and sometimes I draw, zough not vairy well. What about you?"

"I draw too, and, and I sometimes write poetry."

"Oh goody, I'd like to see zem one day, yes?"

Tweek nodded, cheeks tinting a soft pink. He continued his list, ticking each item off on a finger. "I drink coffee, spaz, play cards with myself, watch the ceiling fan, clean compulsively, and sit by the Pond and just think."

"What music do you listen to, zen?"

Falling back into the comfort of the beanbag chair he considered the question with a slight smile. "Anything soft, anything that doesn't make me want to bang my head on the wall! Calm stuff, mellow-out stuff."

"Could I assume you like _Iron and Wine_?"

Shooting up into a sitting position once more Tweek nodded viciously, grinning. "Yes, oh God, I love them! _Spoken words like moonlight_…"

"_You're ze voice zat I like_." They both grinned at each other before breaking into giggles at how Christophe's accent butchered the rather clean-cut vocals of the song. The blonde was rather amazed at seeing The Mole's tittering giggles and small gasps for breath as his cheeks turned pink in an attempt to contain himself. Tweek smiled to himself, hiding it behind a hand—seeing Christophe like this was nice.

As they both wiped at their eyes Tweek asked, "So where is your dad?"

Christophe stilled, eyes narrowing at the nail was hit on the head. But that's what Tweek had wanted, to bring up the iffy subject. "Where's _your_ fazza?"

"At work, he works at Harbucks. He usually doesn't care who I hang out with anyway, he's, he's disappointed in me, because I'm not a good boy, I'm not good in anything like sports, because holy shit, I don't want to get hit by the balls! Can you say 'coma'? We're not as close as Mom and I, like you could imagine. So where is _your_ dad?"

Christophe tensed, feeling his eyes prickle dangerously. He didn't want to say, he didn't want to launch into such a painful story, or he'd end up crying, which would ruin his reputation. But he felt some sort of obligation to Tweek after all the blonde was trying to do for them both. "'e's dead, and 'as been for several years. _Papa_ and_ Maman_, zey lived in America, in Pennsylvania, for years. _Papa_, 'e was in ze Army, and so proud to serve for a country zat saved 'is own, France, in ze second World War. 'e got stationed zere in France, while _Maman_ was pregnant, and I was born zere and we lived in Orléans, as bases and military zat is not French isn't allowed in French territories, alzough Orléans was a communication centre. We stayed until my first year of schooling, in which _Papa_ was stationed 'ere in America once more, and wanted to settle in a small, remote place to raise ze family, a place not likely to be ridden wiz wars, which was 'ere in Souz Park.

"Zat year 'e was shipped off to ze Middle East as _Operation Desert Shield _and _Desert Storm _took zeir tolls. 'e sent letters when 'e could, wich was ze only reason I know 'e was such a brave, well-to-do man, besides ze awful stories _Maman_ tells me. But 'e died at ze end of it, by a suicide bomber, a last attempt of ze Iraqis to keep Kuwait under Suddam's power.

"When my muzza told me, I was shocked, and denied such an accusation. 'ow could _Papa_ die when 'e was doing so much good? We 'ad a funeral, and _Maman _broke down, and I knew et was true, my fazza was dead. _Maman_ became a Bible-toting Jesus lover, falling 'eavily onto ze Roman-Catholic faith for comfort since 'er family was still in France. Me, I 'ated God for taking _Papa_, a man zat could 'ave easily stuck up 'is nose at ze opportunity to serve a country zat wasn't really 'is own. Et made me 'urt.

"And I snapped. I became ze fazza _Maman_ 'ad told me of, ze loud, tempermental General zat treated people like 'is troops. I became my number one priority, yelling or acting out at anyone zat zought ozerwise or even looked at me funny. _Maman_ knew why I became such a 'assle, and took me to zerapy for et, but as you know, et doesn't work well."

Tweek looked up at Christophe, face hidden behind shiny, mousy bangs, though the tremour running through his body steadily said everything that needed t be. Getting onto his knees the blonde placed a hand on Christophe's knee; comfort wasn't really something he was trained in, and being around miserable people made him uncomfortable, but since _he'd_ insisted on knowing, it was his duty to at least try.

"Mole…why don't you cry?"

_Good going, Tweek, now expect to get kicked in the face, you're on that level_.

Christophe looked up, visibly straining to keep the water from spilling from his glassy eyes. His fingers clasped hard to the material of his pants, knuckled going white. "Why should I?"

"He, he was you're dad, and you just told one heart-fucking-wrenching story! He'd want it!" Tweek squeaked, flinching slightly as his left eyes twitched closed at the pained look The Mole gave him.

"Dead ez better, but not for 'im, _NOT FOR 'IM YOU FUCKING COCK SUCKING, DOUCHEHOLE BASTARD!"_ Christophe shrieked at the ceiling, raising two middle fingers that would make even Craig proud. He slumped forward, tears streaming from eyes bruised from lack of sleep and sobbed. Tweek threw his arms around The Mole, not knowing what else to do, and rested his chin on the brunette's trembling shoulder.

Dead is better.

But for who?

---

The incident was never mentioned again. Christophe explained he would never believe in a deity that could take innocent peoples in spitewas no deity that deserved worship and praise. It did seem logical, after all, God would be no better than his arch enemy, Satan, if he did such a thing, correct? Though the French boy saw Jesus walking down the street several days of the week, he still remained a non-believer. Even as the Christmas lights were hung, carols were sung, and the town decorated in red and green (save for the Broflovski residence), Christophe held firm on his ground.

Christmas Eve in the Tweak residence was spent by the fireplace drinking Eggnog and singing old Irish folksongs that had nothing to do with the seasonal cheer, though the Christmas tree drowning them in technicolours added some sort of flare. Red from drunkenness Tweek giggled as his parents sung back and forth the parts to _Huntingtower_, felt himself nearly overcome with tears of thoughts of Christophe when his mother sung _Johnny Has Gone for a Soldier_, and joined in happily with _Dabbling in the Dew_.

"_O where are you going, my pretty little dear,_

_with your rosie red cheeks, and your coal black hair?_" Eavan sung, voice thick with her accent as Richard chuckled deeply to himself.

"_I'm going a-milking, kind sir, she answered me_,

_And it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair_," Tweek squaeked, busting into silly giggles, cheeks tinted red, pupils a pin-prick in the chocolate of his eyes. It didn't take long for them all to forget the lyrics in their incredible intoxicated state, Tweek soon falling into half-unconsciousness, the Christmas lights dancing across his eyelids and down into the darkness of his Self, Curson's tittering laughter the only sign that he was indeed no longer awake.

Christmas morning he awoke in his own bed, went downstairs and took several pills chased with scalding coffee before opening his gifts, moaning about a headache. His parents only smiled sheepishly, embarrassed they'd all gotten so wasted on Eggnog. He was pleasantly surprised to get new bedsheets (the last had taken much abuse with coffee stains all over them), a white board and dry-erase markers for the to-do list he'd been advised to make, sketch paper and new crayons, a poster of Salvador Dalí's "Hallucinogenic Toreador", several CDs (_The Decemberist, The Bees, True Love Always, Arcade Fire_), and a shitload of clothing. The merriment of shredding paper was cut short as he was handed the phone to argue with a growling Christophe about the Christmas gift he'd gotten him. Despite the French boys incessant whining about the holiday he'd felt a need to get him _something_ since they both had lived through three weeks of friendship without more than a slap or pinch. Though hearing a muttered "zank you" was enough to make the Hellacious few weeks worth it.

Six days passed, and the New Year's partying started up. If he'd thought his parents were drunk on Christmas Eve, Tweek was sorely mistaken. Shoved into the cold of near-midnight at the town square watching the Ball fall in New York, he was amazed at the wavering drunks, shouting slurs of the countdown, the crowd screwing up at four and counting back up instead of down the three. As soon as the Ball hit confetti showered the crowd and the adults let out whoots of joy before shuffling into the bars, while the children grumbled and trudged home alone or took the opportunity to reek havoc in the form of TPing.

The cleanup was, as anyone could imagine, a labourous, shitty job. It was astounding the mess that town took overnight, litter and vomit, vandalism and stole merchandise. It was worse than the year before, breaking the disaster record. The whole event had a total of seven casualties, two human, the rest furry little creatures running out in front of drunk drivers.

Two weeks passed with more grievous lessons taught by the computer and TV set, and test in every subject. Tweek passed them all like cake, fully in the routine of schoolwork and playtime. He took his pills and Curson remained chained up, though he'd learned how to confine him in a box about as big as a WallMart's garden centre so he could flounce about and walk. He felt proud at the trick, locking his mental partner into a cage, per say. Curson, though, showed his resentment at such actions by acute headaches and violent images being thrown before his eyes. When it happened mental-Tweek would grab a bow-and-arrow and shoot the Bat King in the head. Overall, it was intensely pleasing.

As those two weeks passed, Christophe and Tweek got together more often, opening up little by little, until there was no threats and raised fist. The brunette took him out one day, to Stark's Pond while the other children were back in school from Winter Break, and taught him how to ice-skate. Or tried, anyway. After an hour of showing the poor blonde ways to keep balance that _never_ failed, Tweek still ended up defying all laws of ice-skating and ended up sliding along the ice on his back toward the snowy bank. Christophe couldn't figure out how the boy continued to end up slipping within three seconds of standing onto his butt, back, or face, and eventually gave up his efforts.

So they sat in the snow and talked about weird quirks of their personality. The Mole launched into a tale of his hate for guard dogs, stemming from his own long-dead mutt. It'd been when they first moved to South Park, they got a dog, a German Shepard to keep Yvette and him safe while is father was sent off. It snapped one day and went after Christophe, snarling, foaming with death in its eyes. Luckily his father was still with them and ended up killing it before it killed Christophe, though the boy gained a serious gash in his side and had to get rabies shots.

Tweek's story of his intense fear of telephones was entirely different. It stemmed from a joke Craig had played, calling with a horse voice that breathed death into the receiver before saying, "I've come to get you…to sex you up…to _kill you_," and a knocking rapped on the back door. Tweek had freaked, diving under the coffee table as the knocking intensified and loud, pounding footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs. The receiver spoke as the footsteps got closer, "I know where you are, and I'll skin you alive, oh, the scent of death is strong…" and boots had appeared in front of Tweek's eyes. He'd nearly shit himself as Craig's face appeared grinning like a fool and shouted, "Gotcha". Christophe had only watched him throughout the story with a stony face, cheeks reddening until he burst into side-cramping laughter. Only when The Mole complained of a sore-throat from gulping winter air was Tweek satisfied.

Two days passed, marking it a Wednesday, and Tweek was found sitting in Denver's Department of Pediatrician Psychology. He was on the floor, headphones over his ears to drown out the sounds of squealing children, and Jenny's constant questioning. The nurse had told him to draw the one thing most important to him at that moment while he waited. He held a black crayon poised above the blank sheet of paper, tongue between his teeth in concentration. He had no idea how to illustrate what he wanted, but if he turned in nothing, Dr. Rizzo would yell. Sighing he pressed the crayon down and drew what made the most sense to him, music swirling.

"_I carved your name across my eyelids, you pray for rain, I pray for blindness. If you still want me, please forgive me, the crown of love is not upon me_."

There were seven people illustrated when he was done, in a circle with hands linked, as if looking upward to the camera. Clyde, Craig, Token, Kyle, Kenny, Christophe, and Gregory looked up at him from the picture, each showing signs of happiness in their own way. Craig and Christophe were given the most detail a nine-year-old was capable of, the Nommel with a coy smirk, tongue turned upward at the corner of his mouth, while Christophe grinned around a cigarette between his teeth. He coloured around the ring of people black, done hard enough to threaten tearing the paper, while inside the ring his own face grinned upward, cocked, left eye squeezed shut, though he noted with raised brows that he'd illustrated himself with longer, pointy ears and also fang-like teeth. Growling he knew it was some work Curson had implanted into his subconscious, but there was no time to fix it as the nurse came out and called his name.

He grabbed the paper and jammed the crayons back into their box before following after the smiling face of the nurse, one of which he'd never seen, which meant Janine had got laid-off. Oh well, boo-hoo. Huffing he scrambled after the new nurse into Dr. Rizzo's office, hating that his mother had to stay out of the room. The man looked up from his paper work to flash a brilliant smiling, dazzling like his soft, intelligent eyes. Tweek glanced around the office as the door was shut, and nervously slid to a chair before pulling himself up into it, hand still clasped around his drawing.

"There's my favourite blondie, we have a lot to catch up on! I hope you've been staying warm this winter and didn't drink too much Eggnog," he scolded with a very unprofessional wink.

"Yeah, I've stayed warm," Tweek answered, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck. It was a belated Christmas gift from Christophe, imported from France, and it was perhaps the coziest thing he owned; he didn't go anywhere without it.

"Good, good, let me see that drawing, kiddo." He handed it over almost reluctantly, staring at the floor as Dr. Rizzo looked it over, brows furrowing. "I thought the nurse old you to draw one thing that is most important to you?"

"She, she did, and I did. It was just…hard to draw an emotion, but I d-did my best—oh Jesus!"

Ethan gave the boy a pat on the shoulder, letting the draing flutter to his desk. "What were you illustrating, Tweek?"

"Acceptance."

It all fell into place, the boys circling Tweek, looking joyful, and the blonde grinning like he was the happiest person on the Earth. But it _still_ didn't make complete sense. "Why are you friends, Token, Clyde, and Craig on here, then?"

"They aren't my friends," Tweek replied, staring at the desk's legs. To the left of the front panel of the desk was a long, jagged scratch he'd never noticed, and below it a blemished spot a tad lighter than the rest of the wood, as if someone kicked it.

"Oh? Why not?"

"They just aren't."

"If you don't tell me, Tweek, I can't help you."

The Tweak boy looked up with narrowed eyes. "I don't need help, I understand it perfectly, thanks."

Dr. Rizzo shrugged gracefully; what could he do, push the boy into telling him? That would be unprofessional, and of course Tweek was the one paying him—if he felt over his friends' refusal, he wouldn't argue otherwise. Instead he pointed at the pictures of Kyle, Kenny, Gregory, and Christophe. "Who are these boys?"

Tweek lifted a finger and pointed to the green-skicapped boy. "That's Kyle Broflovski, he's the only Jew in our town except his family. He's nice enough, if you don't provoke him," he twitched at the memory of an encounter he had with the red-head. "Because of his faith he's different too, and left out of stuff at Christmas, so sometimes he hang out. That," he moved his finger upward to point at the only hooded one, "is Kenny McCormick. He's poor and has a sick sense of humour, and loves porn and all that weird sick-o stuff, but he gives good advice when people stop and listen." He shifted his finger to point at the curly-blonde Brit. "That's Gregory Freemont, he's from Britain and is cocky. He thinks he's better then everyone, but he can be useful. And that is The Mole, a French boy that I'm friends with."

Dr. Rizzo lifted a brow, pen poised on the pad of yellow paper he'd been scribbling on furiously. "The Mole?"

"Yeah, The Mole. That isn't his real name, it's like, his undercover name. I have no clue where it came from, actually, but he did sort of explain it from some happening at private school," he said, scratching at his head, wishing he'd listened a little closer. "His real name is Christophe DeLorne, and as I've said, he's French so he has a funny accent and everything. We're friends 'cause no one else likes us, so that like, pulls us together and stuff."

"What are you're feelings about this, Christophe?"

"He's cool, different, a mystery yet an open book, and I like him for that. He's everything I'm not, most of which I want to be."

"And toward Craig?"

"Who cares, he needs to get shot in the face," he scoffed, glowering at the floor.

"And yet you want to be accepted by him, yes?"

Shit, he'd forgotten about that little fault. Grinding his teeth he thought about lying, actually considered it, consequence and all, but sigh and just nodded as Dr. Rizzo's pen scrawled on the notepad. "I want acceptance from them all, my friends, because it always sort of seemed like they thought they _had_ to associate with me, and I want them to do it because they're just my _friends_." He looked up, seeing the almost sympathetic look behind half-framed glasses. "Why do you always single out Craig?"

Not particularly liking the tone Tweek was using, Ethan crossed his legs, resting an elbow on the desk and asked, "Why are you so caught-up with me supposedly singling out Craig?" Trapped, Tweek cursed under his breath, again finding the floor very interesting. With a half smile, Dr Rizzo continued. "Have the medicines been working, do you think?"

"Hold on," he said, closing his eyes as he bent down to fake tie his shoe. Within his mind he walked up to the cage holding the King of Deceit, watching with an amused look at the demon sprawled across a sofa, the only thing in the confined space of his mind. He shook his head as Curson stretched very cat-like and wandered to the edge of the cage, only inches away from Tweek. He gulped nervously, looking up at frowning, stony face and dancing scarlet eyes.

"_Familiarity, I do see. Or should I say, 'Hello Clarice'?"_

Tweek shuddered at the perfect intimation of Dr. Hannibal in the movies. "I see the pills are working if you're still in your cage, goodie."

Curson snorted, baring pointy teeth as a half-finger touched the solid barrier and wrote in flaring red letters, "REDRUM". Tweek squealed at the devilish look as the clawed hand that had wrote the message continued through the barrier, reaching toward his throat. In reality he bolted back upright, eyes flying open and took a shaky breath before saying:

"They're working, but not good enough."

---

Class still sucked, Mr. Garrison yelled and quarreled, handed out math assignments no fourth-grader would be able to accomplish, and ranted himself into hysterics over the Baldwins' deaths. Class, however, was more tensed and certain things that had to be taught were replaced by what MAC saw fit. But who really cared if the test for memorizing the planets and their moons was replaced?

Craig didn't. The war was an excuse not to do homework, despite nearly all the kids being grounded for skipping school to watch _Terrence and Phillip: Asses of Fire_. He still didn't understand why their mother's were so pissed off at the Canadian government for showing a film; it was ridiculous, when most of the world's graphic movies came out of the United States.

"Craig, I know my poster of Alec Baldwin is very interesting, but answer the question!" Mr. Garrison's voice commanded. He blinked, rubbing at his eyes as he focused on the teacher.

"Uh…what question?"

Rolling his eyes Mr. Garrison placed hands on his hips. "Why is the United States military going to us MK-47's?"

"Uh…'cause they kill people?"

"Wrong, the answer I was looking for was because they'll blow the head's off of those Canadian bastard's so I can get some poontang. Anyway children, let's go over some vocab." It was when he turned to the board the recess bell rang, and the children hightailed it out of the classroom. He let out a breath and plopped down into a chair. "Looks like it's just me and you Mr. Hat, what can we do all alone…?"

Out on the playground Craig smacked a second-grader, stealing the ball clutched in his grasp, much to Token's amusement. Grinning cockily he took up post by the slide and chunked it hard at Token's face, whom squealed in surprise and ducked, the ball bouncing off of Marcy's toosh. She turned, giving the grinning Craig a dirty look before kicking the ball hard at him and stormed off.

"Touch my balls more often, Marcy baby!" he called as Token doubled over in laughter. As Token struggled to recovering, the Nommel boy bounced the ball on his foot in time; one two three, one two three, one two…

"Luffins, you're one sassy bitch, you know that?" the Williams' boy said as he got to his feet, wiping tears and snow from his face. Craig shrugged gracefully, tossing the ball up to waist-height before kicking it at Token, who caught it, wincing at the sting in his hands.

"Yeah, well, that's why you all love me."

Shaking his head Token threw the ball up and passed it on his forearms, the ball falling short, but Craig extended his foot and kicked it back as their game of volleyball-soccer continued. Soccer was the one sport he was proud of, and excelled in over others. But he hated being told what to do and what position to play, rules were foreign to him.

Whirling cut through the child's play atmosphere, mechanical clanks sounding from above. Confused Craig turned his head upward, missing the ball as it came his way. The clouds were parted, streamed across the blue-blue sky as military airplanes _voom_ed by, circling the school before breaking mach-3 and turning in the direction of the base on the edge of town. He shook his head, turning back to retrieve the ball.

"What if we die?" Token asked, shoving the ball out of Craig's hands and tossed it to an eager third-grader. "This is serious. I mean, you don't realize it's serious until an F-22 flies over the school. What if we die?" he repeated.

"If we die, then don't regret a damn thing," Craig replied seriously, cramming his hands into his pockets. He'd never seen Token so worked up before, and it wasn't very flattering. Token, though, didn't seem impressed by his answer.

"But our Dad's! They're the ones fighting, what if _they_ die? They have the jobs, what would happened then?"

Craig shook his head; he didn't know. His father was enrolled in the army as well, more for access into the USO show than anything. But what would happen if he died? His mom would be widowed with two children; how would she be able to take care of Tracie and him? Suddenly it hit him how shitty war was.

Sensing Craig's internal battle, Token grabbed his wrist, pulling him over to a group of kids conjugated around Gregory, high up on a crate. "Let's see what's going on, okay dude?"

"The American government thinks it has the right to police the world. Your government is going to kill two Canadian citizens, an action condemned by the UN. Home of the free indeed!"

Pulling out of his struggle of wits, Craig snorted; what did Gregory think he was doing? He'd been a backdrop at the school for so long, and yet now he was taking a stand, giving himself a name? It was bogus, and despite the intelligence the British boy held, he was going about it entirely the wrong way.

"Let's play tetherball!' Clyde yelled, turning his back on the speech toward Token and him. The crowd let out a cheer and Craig threw him a smile for his genius suggestion. Anything to get Gregory to shut up…

"This is about censorship, about freedom of speech! Can't you guys be more political, like Gregory?" Wendy squeaked from the back, everyone turning to face the flustered face of the school's resident hippie. Her cheeks were red, eyes narrowed, leaning slightly forward to make herself seem more intimidating and stubborn. Craig blew a raspberry, strutting passed her rolling his eyes.

"Who wants to be like stingy old Gregory? Sorry, Wendy, but your new guy is a total fag," he said with a wink, noting the giggling of Clyde and bright-white grin of Token. They'd broken up, reason: I can't take that whiny voice any longer! Craig had to applaud his friend's decision, besides Stan and the girls, who could really stay around her without the person's ears bleeding?

"You asshole, if you have nothing nice to say get out of here!" Wendy squealed, pointing off in the opposite direction with a scowl etched on her face.

"I was going before you had to stop me, asslicker," he replied with a snort, sliding under her arm before he was once again stopped, but by the annoying voice of Gregory.

"That is no way to talk to a lady!"

"Oooh, stand up for the missus, huh? Well then, looks like there really is a vagina in that couple, but watch out, tiger, or Stan will tear you new peehole." He flashed his famous smile at the appalled look on Gregory's face and trotted off with his friends in toe, listening to Wendy ask Stan his opinion, and the gargling, stomach wrenching sounds of Marsh yarfing all over her. It was satisfying, having Wendy projectile-vomited on, and made him giggle.

"Craig-Luffins, you kinky sonuvabitch," Token said, shaking his head and shuddering as the barfing-noises hit his gag reflex. "You get off to knowing Wendy was just puked on, don't you?"

"You found me out, Williams, now Clyde is going to have to beat you at tetherball."

"Hell yes!" Clyde exclaimed, running over to the pole and grabbed the ball, whacking it with the palm of his hand. Token howled and ran over, hitting the ball back, barely in time. Their game became heated quickly, throwing curses back and forth, hands turning red quickly from the impact of the ball. Craig snorted as he watched, shaking his head and turned away, spotting the other kids staring at Cartman as he danced around singing "Kyle's Mom is a Big Fat Bitch", Kyle smoldering in anger as everyone joined in.

"What the Hell is wrong with our school?"

"What do you mean?" Clyde asked as he hit the ball rocketing at his face with a closed fist.

"I mean, I wonder if any other school in the country breaks out into song at recess, or is South Park just fucked up."

"You even have to ask?"

"True." He chucked at the thought, eyes widening as Cartman was hauled away by Sheila. He let out a hoot of joy as the fat kid struggled in Mrs. Broflovski's grasp, Kyle following slowly behind his Mom. Suits the assrammer for calling an adult a bitch. "Hah, Cartman just got in deep shit!"

"Huh? Really?" Clyde questioned, rushing over to Craig's side and howling at as well in amusement. "Damn fatfuck got what he deserved!"

"Looks like you're the fatkid again, Clyde," Token said with a half-hearted smile, smacking him on the shoulder. Clyde scowled, glaring.

"I'm not fat!"

Before Token could respond Craig threw his arms over their shoulders with a giggle. "Who cares, you guys? With Cartman gone, Mr. Garrision will be in a great mood, so he won't even notice if we leave. What do you guys say, we skip and get some pizza at Whistlin' Willies?"

"What if our parents catch us?" Clyde asked, uncertain.

"Our Mom's are all busy with meetings and crap, and our Dad's aren't even in town! Come on, what could happen?"

It was simple: they would go over to the corner of the recess courtyard that couldn't be seen by anyone else, and jump the wall. That wasn't a problem, Token scaled the eight-foot wall first, turned with his belly on the ledge and feet sticking out toward the front of the school and reached down to help up Craig. Feet planted on the wall Token held Craig's wrist as he scaled the flat wall, until he could pull himself up, and Token dropped to the ground while Clyde went through the same process.

From there they walked the edge of the wall to the back left corner and cut out across a snowy field to the left, bailing into a small grove of stripped bushes and trees. They walked through the shrubbery until the backroad came into view, and followed it until it swerved into the cemetery. There they walked down the hill and straight into town, singing _Some Fantastic (Ivory and Ivory)_. The few adults walking the street gave them looks as they danced around, wiggling their hips, Token going as far as wrapping a leg around a lamp post and ground his hips into it as he leaned backwards to bat his eyes at the other boys. They giggled all the way to Whistlin' Willies after nearly giving an old lady a heart attack after seeing Token and Clyde get very close and fake-makeout.

As they sat down in a booth in the back, they were still giggling like school girls, faces red from lack of oxygen. "God, did you see that lady's face? It was all OMIGODBOYSTONGUINGOHLORDNOTINMYDAY!"

"Yeah but you guys gave a good show," Craig winked and they smiled bashfully, reminded entirely too much of the dead Kenny.

"That's what you call talent, my fine friends, _pure talent_," Clyde boasted as Whistlin' Willie walked up to the table with a notepad in hand.

"What will you boys be havin' today at—" he whistled out Whistlin' Willies and looked at them expectantly to do the same. The boys, however, just looked at each other and grinned.

"Cheese pizza," Clyde said firmly.

"With stuffed crust!" Token demanded.

"And don't bitch us out on the amount of cheese or we'll write complaints," Craig added, snapping his fingers as he remembered drinks. "And bring us some Shirley Temples, stat!" Whistlin' Willie trotted away grumbling something about 'fucking snot-nosed brats' and came back with their drinks. They each took them up and sipped, sighing in wonder at the fizzy cherry drink.

"These things are like, _orgasms_ in glasses," Clyde said as he snuggled into the sticky leather booth. The others raised eyebrows at the analogy.

"There something you haven't been telling us, Donovan?"

Flushing Clyde kicked Craig's shin from under the table, scowling. "No! I heard about it from Kenny. And isn't there something _you_ should be telling _us_ with how you've been acting? All the sexual innuendoes and that sly let-me-feel-you-up voice?"

"A man is who he is, boys," he said, shrugging, though his eyes glinted, saying he knew exactly what Clyde was talking about.

Leaning onto the table and swirling his straw Token shook his head. "I can tell you what you are, Luffins, you're hot for Red. Let's talk about that, hm?"

"Fuck you! I'm not hot for Red!"

"That's why you lick your lips when you stare at her in class, right?" Clyde asked, imitating Token by leaning across the table and lowered his eyelids, doing his best to look sexy while interrogating.

"And throw things at her?"

"Make fun of her friends, but never her?"

"Write notes but never deliver them?"

"And—"

"Shut up, dickholes, she's been checking out that red-Goth kid, what's his face?"

Token snorted, chuckling as his eyes widened a tad in entertainment. "Markus, she's hot for _Markus_? The super-king of Goths, crappy poetry, and the electric guitar? The chain-smoker Markus? Get out of here."

"Yeah, shitty choice in dudes, isn't it?" Craig muffed, gulping his Shirley Temple.

"Oooh, is that jealousy I hear, Smutmuffin? Wow, I never would've guessed."

Luckily at that point in time Whistlin' Willie appeared with their pizza, harassing them to whistle for it. Once done the cheese glued their mouths shut so Craig didn't have to endure any more taunting. Him hot for Red? Puh-lease! The television crackled as the news flashed on.

"…and here, reporting about the new V-chip, is a midget in a bikini!"

"Well Tom, 'Mothers Against Canadians' have just recently, within the hour, tested a new prototype to keep children from swearing! It admits a small shock when an obscenity is said, conditioning the child not to curse! The doctors will start equipping children with the new device in a week, isn't that great, Tom?"

"That is great! Now to the weather…"

The boys moaned around their pizza, swallowing hard and glared at the TV, saying in unison:

"Fucking Cartman."

---

Heat swelled in the town square, causing steam to rise above the buildings as any and all Canadian paraphernalia was burned. The bonfire was huge, flames licking upward above the Mayor's courthouse, crackling as ash and ember was sent scattering into the wind. Craig coughed as smoke billowed into his throat, scratching at it. Where the fuck were Clyde and Token? He'd told them to meet him here, next to Tom's Rhinoplasty. Glancing through the dad's dressed as soldiers and fire he spotted Clyde saying something heatedly to Stan and Kyle before stomping away in his direction.

"Yo, Rover! Donovan! Clyde!"

The brunette turned to face him and wandered over, arms crossed across his chest. From the frown and twitch under his eye he could tell Clyde wasn't in a very good mood, and pissed off Clyde wasn't something t mess with.

"Where's Token?"

"At home, Shelly Marsh is his sitter so there's no way he's getting out."

"Want to go down to Terryall creek, then?"

"No," Clyde replied harshly. "I'm going home before I get into any more trouble with Mommy. That old lady from the other day turned out to live a few houses down and told Mommy I was skipping. I'm grounded for a week now."

Craig scoffed at the news, waving it off. "Come on, it's not like we'll be in town, no one will know. I promise. Anyway, your mom is too busy with MAC right now."

"No way, dude, I'm going home to watch some TV before she takes that away." He turned and began walking away, not even stopping when Craig yelled:

"Don't bitch out on me, Donovan!"

---

The computer was reality outside of reality, you could find information on anything, talk to friends, play games, even watch TV. It was absolutely "the shit". Night had fallen over South Park, the bonfire glowing still from the town, warming the temperature a few degrees, setting it around eighteen degrees Fahrenheit. Craig sat cross-legged in the plush computer chair of his dad's office, his mom out at a PTA meeting, leaving him in charge of his sister, who for all he knew was still sitting on the couch watching a movie. He clicked the _AOL_, deciding that retrieving the telephone would cause havoc if he had to go by his sister. Instantly a conference room popped up.

_Joining Conference sweetlove69969; invited P.I. williams10, decaf-skittlezes, flipoff-er101_

**P.I. williams10**: hear about the meeting tonight?

**flipoff-er 101**: wat meeting?

**P.I. williams10**: hold on, lemme c/p..okay: "Want to help Terrence & Phillip? Sneak out after you get tucked into bed tonight and meet at Carl's Warehouse. …punch and pie. This is top secret. The password is…"

**flipoff-er 101**: the password is wat?

**P.I. williams10**: the password: IS

**flipoff-er 101**: oOoOoOoh. You goin?

**P.I. williams10**: yeah, so are you. meet me next to Anderson's bar, ok?

**flipof-er 101**: only if you tell me who decaf is

**P.I. williams10**: …/

**P.I. williams10**: it's Tweek, but he hasn't actually said anything for, like, an hour so it's all good

**flipoff-er 101**: oh ok…so around 10 15 at Anderson's?

**P.I. williams10**: yeah, see you there. Mom's home so I gotta go, later Luffins

**flipoff-er 101**: later

_P.I. williams 10 has signed off_

Craig shut down and swung around in his chair, stretching with a yawn, a hand ruffling through his hair as he got up. When did Tweek get a screenname? From what he remembered, the caffeine-addict was afraid senseless of computers. Ah well, some things changed, he guessed.

_I told you, I can't take you like this. It's too difficult to deal with right now. I'm sorry, really, but fuck you, Tweek._

He sighed as he slumped down the stairs, scratching at a place his mother didn't condone. Maybe he'd gone a bit overboard with Tweek…what, he was guilty now? No way! He couldn't very well just deal with an unemotional, drugged up Tweek. A _crazy_ Tweek. A Tweek that wasn't _Tweek_. What kind of friend would he be then? A bad one, he told himself as he jumped off the last stair and walked into the living room where Tracie was curled up under a blanket on the couch, watching _Lady and the Tramp_. She looked up at him with sleepy hazel eyes, hair a mess and down, and stifled a yawn.

"You gonna throw me offa the TV, Craigy?"

He glanced at the clock on the wall: it was already 9 50. He wagged his finger at her with a soft smile. "No, Trace, but I am kicking you up to bed."

"Aw, but I'm not tired!"

He shook his head as she yawned, chuckling softly at the self-incriminating evidence. He walked over to her and took her hand, pulling her up as he turned off the VCR and TV, worrying about putting the movie back in its case later. He led her up the stairs, catching her as she stumbled, half asleep. At the top he sighed and picked her up, carrying her into bed and tucked her in. As he turned to leave she spoke up.

"Where are you goin', Craig?"

"I have something to do, but I'll be back by midnight, okay?"

"You're leaving me alone?" she whined, clutching to her teddy bear.

"Yeah, Trace, but I'll lock the door so nothing should happen. Anyway, the soldiers are out patrolling, doesn't that make you feel safe? And Stan lives a house away, and you know how much Sparky loves you, he won't let anything happen to you."

"What about Rex?"

He smiled at the mention of Clyde's dog. "Rex won't let any bad guys come and get you either, okay sis? Now you go to bed, sweet dreams."

"'night," she replied feebly as he shut the door and trotted more hurriedly down the stairs. At the closet by the door he pulled on his shoes, jacket, scarf, and messily shoved his hair under his hat. Grabbing his set of keys from the bowl by the door he walked out, locked the door, and hopped on his waiting bike, rested up against the side of the garage.

The wind snapped around him as he rode through the dark streets, instinct telling him where to go, where to turn. Most of the houses were dark, he noted as he peddled by, although some were illuminated blue by the TVs LCD screens. He ticked off windows of houses he knew where the kids slept: Red, Kevin, DogPoo, Bebe, Jordan, all of which were dark and unstirred.

_I can't be your friend if you're like this._

Craig shuddered as he passed by Tweek's house the last conversation they'd had in months play over and over in his mind. The window was closed, curtains drawn shut, but he could tell the light was on. He was tempted to throw rocks at the window, anything to get Tweek to come down, but he'd told Token he'd be at Anderson's in fifteen minutes, and he'd be damned if he didn't go.

Sighing he peddled faster, out of the residential part of South Park, into a hollata no where, in which he stood up on the peddles and leaned forward slightly to gain speed up the first hill in a series of three, the last an easy coast down into town. It took him maybe a minute to get to the top of the third hill, where he let out a hoot and zipped down Main Street, leaning right as he turned and peddled hard across Grocery Mart's parking lot, cutting over to the road behind it, Memorial Road. Two minutes of riding and he hung a left, seeing Token standing by the bar with his bike.

"You're a minute late, Craigers," Token called as he got on his own bike and circled over to Craig.

"Shut up and come on, we've got fourteen minutes to get to the _real_ Treasure Cove."

Token nodded, taking up post by Craig as he navigated the roads with ease toward the sleazy, downtrodden part of town. It wasn't the redlight district of Colfax Point, but instead of the more trashy, poor part of town (as they often joked, Kenny's side of town), ironically named Treasure Cove. It indeed resembled the deserted state their Treasure Cove had when all of the parents were taken to jail for "molestering" their children, and because of that, had been given that name by the kids, which just stuck over the months.

Carl's Warehouse was a dirty building that no one had stepped in for years, save for the drug addicts, homeless people, flea-ridden cats of the city, and Lianne Cartman for a video shot with Crackwhore Magazine. Its sign hung sideways, the light outside faint and flickering on and off as rats ran by and through holes in the brick. The boys parked their bikes next to several others and knocked on the door.

"What's the password?"

"Is," Token answered as the door was drawn back, revealing Kyle and Stan. Kyle grinned at the both, welcoming them into the wandering crowd.

"Didn't expect to see you here, Craig."

"Tokes dragged me," he said, cramming his hands into his pockets, looking around at the turnout. "Huh, you guys have one helluva organization going on to get half the class here."

"Yeah, know anyone else that's going to show up, Clyde maybe?"

"Nah, he doesn't want to fuck around with his Mommy's orders."

Grabbing Stan's wrist, Kyle pulled him up in front of the crowd and coughed politely. When no one seemed to notice him the Jew shouted, "SIT DOWN!" They obeyed, eyes wide at Kyle's outburst. Craig laughed softly into his hand as Stan fidgeted nervously, pulling at the brim of his hat.

Leaning over, chin resting on Token's shoulder, his left arm snaking around his back he whispered, "How much you wanna bet Gregory will take over?"

Token turned, rolling his eyes and whispered back, "I'm not betting 'cause I know it's going to happen." By then two kids had walked out, disappointed that there was no punch and pie, like promised. Stan seemed little disturbed by that though.

"Uh, Terrence and Phillip are supposed to be killed, so we think we should…prank call a bunch of policemen! A-and have pizza delivered tot heir houses that they didn't order! Viva la resistance!" Craig sat on his hands to keep from smacking Gregory as he sighed heavily, making a rude noise to show his displeasure at the idea. "Uh…"

Dissatisfied Gregory raised his hand, "May I?"

"What?"

Without explaining himself the blonde Brit got to his feet and set up a large mapbook before pointing to the first page. "Terrence and Phillip are currently being held at the Canadian interment camp two kilometers outside of town. They're to be executed tomorrow, during a star-studded USO show for the troops."

Leaning heavily on Token still Craig grinned, shaking his head. "Told you."

"Shhh, let's see what Blondie has to say."

"Once the show begins, we should have about one hour to get Terrence and Phillip out of their cell," he turned the page and smacked the drawing, "into this clearing. There we will all rendezvous, and get together to take Terrence and Phillip safely back to Canada," he flipped the page once more, showing an arrow from South Park to the Canadian border. Craig snorted, not particularly interested; suer, he didn't want the two actors dead, but he didn't want to listen to his jackhole either. "You must meet me at the rendezvous point at precisely 10 p.m. Sneaking into the show and breaking out Terrence and Phillip will be the most dangerous part, so I'll go myself."

Wendy seemed to radiate at that, even the two friends could tell from behind her. Stan's face darkened as he caught sight of her smiling and sighing dreamily and grabbed Kyle, snapping, "No! _We're_ going. _We_ started La Resistance, _we'll_ get Terrence and Phillip and meet _you_ at the rendez-vouse point."

Craig could hardly contain himself as he laughed. Token finally clamped a hand over his mouth, giving him a look that said be-good-doggie-no-chew. How could he resist? This was the biggest male-ego war _ever_.

Gregory looked uncertain by Stan's proposition, almost put-off that he wouldn't be doing it. "This will be very dangerous, are you quite sure?"

Cartman, whom had been steadily quiet throughout growled, "Fuck that!" and was rewarded by a body-shaking jolt from the V-chip.

"Cartman, do you want that V-chip in you forever?" Stan demanded, receiving a shake of the head. "Okay then, we're going. Now, let's run through the plan."

The all gathered around a chess-like table set up in a corner of the warehouse with a box of army toys next to it. Stan and Gregory took up post next to it, taking out the toys and arranging them in proper formation, _tsk_ing at each other when it was done incorrectly and nodding with a smile when it turned out well. The Nommel boy sat in the back of the crowd next to a wall, yawning with boredom. Why did he could to this thing anyway? At least he was smart enough to not listen; he could figure out what was being argued later from Token, he was the kind of person that listened when someone talked.

Of course, when he noticed you _weren't_ listening he'd have a heart attack. Token smacked him hard on the back of the head just as the two "commanders" got their model set up correctly and launched into more talking.

"After you have Terrence and Phillip, quietly make your way to this ridge," he pointed at the one he meant and continued. "We will be waiting for you there. We cannot wait for long, so if you're not there by ten, we will have to leave."

Stan nodded urgently with a grin. "Gotcha!"

Attitude changing Gregory smiled at the inexperienced Marsh boy. "You are indeed brave, but you will need help from someone that has done this sort of thing before. Here's the address of 'The Mole'."

Craig choked on his tongue, scowling at the name, even Token's vicious look not enough to keep him from speaking up. "The Mole? He's a fucking pussy, why would we need him?"

Gregory shot him a look of hate and distaste, frowning at the indirect insults, but otherwise directed his attention to Stan. "He is an expert in covert operations, a mercenary for hire. Your first task will be obtaining him." He glanced around at everyone, making eye contact, lingering on Craig with a growl. "Get lots of sleep. Tomorrow, we will all be risking our lives…for freedom."

As the blonde moved away Craig could sense some sort of devil's work at hand, and moaned as Gregory glanced around, breaking out into song.

"_God had smiled upon you this day, the fate of a nation in your hands!"_ he twirled, drawing a sword from only God-knows-where. "_And blessed be the children, we, who fight with all our bravery, 'til only the righteous stand_." He jumped up onto a soap box, swinging the sword expertly, the blade shimmering death at them. "_You see the dist__ant flames, they bellow in the night. You fight in all our names for what you know is right. And when you all get shot, and cannot carry on, though you die, La Resistance lives on!"_

Craig shook his head; surely no other town broke into song twice within a week, and who knows how many other times if they counted the adults? Surely the whole town was crazy.

The other kids that had come shifted positions, creating a circle around Gregory and his soapbox, as they joined in the song, seeming hardly bewildered they knew the lyrics_. "You may get stabbed in the head with a dagger or sword. You may get burned to death, skinned alive, or worse. But when they torture you, you will not feel the need to run, for, though you die, La Resistance lives on!"_

Stan and Kyle stood by the back, looking at the children singing with their mouths wide open, brows raised. Craig slid up behind them, the same expression plastered to his face. "We're all nuts, aren't we?" he asked, receiving nods from both of them.

Somehow or another, singing the same tune could be heard from four other groups; the MAC members, the soldiers, Terrence and Phillip, and the burly voice of Satan. Yes, it definitely only happened in South Park.

"_Blame Canada! Blame Canada! Because the country's gone awry, tomorrow night these freaks will fry!"_

"_Tomorrow night, our lives will change. Tomorrow night, we'll be entertained. An execution! What a sight! Tomorrow night!"_

"_Up there, there's so much room. Where babies burp, and flowers bloom. Tomorrow night, up there is doomed, and so I will be going soon!"_

"_Shut your fucking face, uncle fucka! You're a boner-biting bastard, uncle fucka! Looks like we may be out of luck, tomorrow night, we're pretty fucked!"_

Sliding away from Stan's group Craig looked around, the other kids marching happily around Gregory who continued to wave his sword around, as if waiting for a cue. Cartman took up post where Craig had been, munching on chips, looking between them.

"_Why did our mothers start this war? What the fuck are they fighting for? When did this song become a marathon?"_

"_I want to be up there!"_

"_When Canada is dead and gone, there'll be no more Celine Dion!"_

As the kids danced around Gregory Token reached out, grabbing Craig and pulling him into the ring. He growled under his breath but joined in, almost compelled.

"_They may cut your dick in half (tomorrow night). And serve it to a pig (our lives will change). And though it hurts, you'll laugh (tomorrow night). And you'll dance a dickless jig (we'll be entertained). Well that's the way it goes (an execution). In war you're shat upon (what a sight)! Though we die_…"

"_I want to be up there!"_

"_Tomorrow night!"_

"_La Resistance lives on!"_

"_Tomorrow we fight for La Resistance!"_

The song came to an abrupt halt and Gregory jumped from his box, putting away all of the devices from the meeting, seeming completely oblivious of the strange phenomenon that just occurred. Shaking his head Craig bolted, saying rather loudly to confirm anyone's thoughts:

"That was _fucking_ weird."

---

The day of the war was agonizing. Soldiers stomped around the streets, the platform the USO show was being held at was in construction, and everyone seemed antsy, nervous about impending doom. But who wouldn't be? Estimated deaths were in the seven billions, but in reality were actually in the hundreds. Deadly weapons were being carried in sight, and school was cancelled, and yet the children remained in doors, plotting for La Resistance's operation that night.

Which was why he was sitting beside Stark's Pond, on a snow-capped hill, staring at its frozen surface. The morning sky was painted soft pastel colours, clouds spread apart and seeming to be on fire as the sun passed through them, giving South Park a heavenly radiance. The mountains seemed softer in the morning light, and at the base windows from houses shimmered like glitter.

Tweek let out a shaking sighed, arms wrapping around his knees. His father was enrolled in the army, and he was afraid he was going to die. If that happened, he didn't know what they were going to do. His mom's parents liked in Scotland, and his dad's wasn't fond of Eavan at all. If his father died, they'd most likely have to move to the United Kingdom Isles. And what if the Canadian's dropped bombs on the town, and everyone died? What then?

He let out a sob, tears streaming from his eyes. He didn't want to die, he didn't want to let Curson win, he didn't want to be dragged into the very depth of his Self, raped, and sent away to the Afterlife. It was all too cruel.

"_To the destination, violating is minimal amounts of worry_."

He sobbed harder; that's right, he'd forgotten to take his pills, seeing no real use when he'd end up blown to smithereens anyway by the end of the day. "I don't, I d-don't wa-want to g-go to He-Hell."

"_The pleasure of release, divinity the prize_."

"I can't le-let you out! You'll do som-something b-ba-bad to m-me."

"_Trust me not_?" Curson asked, scratchy voice seeming softer, and he felt a gentle brush in his mind, making him shiver and sniff back a new storm of tears. He felt so violated already, used, like a puppet on strings being toyed with.

"NO!" he shouted into his arms, slamming an arrow into Curson mentally, the cage now thicker, a level further into his Self then before. He felt a hand on his shoulder and whipped around, intending to hit whoever it was before seeing Christophe with a startled expression on his face.

"Twitchy, is somzing ze matter?"

"We're going to die," he answered, wiping his running nose on his sleeve as The Mole sat in the snow beside him.

"Et ez war, many people die in war, I know zis best, you see. Ironic, esn't et, 'ow _Papa_ zought zat 'ere zere would be no wars, and 'ere was ze best place to raise me, and yet a war starts in zis 'icktown."

Tweek cracked a small smile at Christophe's attempted humour. He'd learned over the two months of having the French boy around that he had a strange, factual humour that wasn't "haha" funny but "heh, aren't you clever?" funny.

"What are you doing out h-here?" Tweek choked out as he contained his sobbing to mere sniffles.

"I need to zink some about everyzing, you know? Ze war, my parents, zis silly country, and I remembered you 'ad once said you come 'ere to zink, and so I did as well."

"Oh." He looked up to the sky, wind blowing his hair back from his face, drying his tears. A fighter jet flew by overhead, loud and obnoxious. "I don't like the war."

"Who does? Et kills people, ze economy, makes people nervous and paranoid. War ez not good, Twitchy."

"I want it gone."

"So do I," Christophe replied lazily as he lay back in the snow, arms under his head, watching the clouds dance in the currents in the upper atmosphere. The rays of light shined down, and from his point of view, Tweek's hair seemed white as he was basked in the sun's warmth. He smiled as Tweek turned his face to the sun and let out a breath, catching a lone winter-flower from the breeze.

"Why does war happen, Mole?"

"Et 'appens to reduce population. Beautiful zings 'appen in reckage, carnage, grow from ze flaming embers and ash. Wizout deaz, zere ez no life, and wizout life zere ez no deaz. Et ez a balance between dark and light, yin and yang, life and deaz, ketchup and moustard, if you will. And zere ez no time wizout war, zere is a period of reestablishing armies and bases, but ze havoc is always reeked again in a few short years, or even monz. Et ez 'ow everyzing works."

It was, of course, true. Christophe had a brilliant way with explaining things, so they were the truth, but didn't have that baddass edge to it. Tweek shuddered as a brisk wind went by, blowing the flower from his grasp, sending it dancing in the direction of the town and destruction.

"What'll you do if I die?"

Christophe lit a cigarette and pressed it between his lips, inhaling the sweet taste, and let out the smoke in a silvery cloud. "I will visit your grave wiz flowers and leave zem zere, and come 'ere to leave a second bouquet in ze water, because you love zis place so. And zen I will move, because Souz Park cannot possibly be as fun wizout you."

Tweek bit his lip, overwhelmed. No one had ever said anything quite as nice, despite talking about his own death. His mind laughed at him for enjoying the mercenary's acceptance so. And when The Mole asked the same question of him, he nearly broke down into tears. He couldn't imagine this feeling, knowing someone liked him for _him_ in his entirety, stripped away. And he knew if Christophe died, no one would ever accept him on the level the brunette did, _ever_.

"You can't die, you're un-dieable, you're my _friend_. You can't die. I'll, I'll go _insane_ again, I—"

Sitting up Christophe stopped him from speaking, a finger to his chapped lips. "_Non_, Twitchy, do not speak like zat, like I will die, et makes et seem like you want me dead!" He gave a lopsided smile around the cigarette, wiping away the tearstains on the blonde's cheeks. "Twitchy, you _are_ still insane, you 'ave yet to find what will make you sane and keep you like zat."

As Christophe drew his finger back, Tweek licked his lips, trying to warm the spot where the brunette's icy touch was. "But _you_ keep me sane."

He shook his head, running a hand through his messy brunette locks. "You are mistaken, Twitchy."

"How do you know?"

Christophe just smiled, an I-know-you're-secret smile as he got to his feet and turned his face to the sky, leaves and snow-flower petals scattering in the wind around him. His words were soft, and seemed to echo on the breeze:

"_Parce que vous me maintenez raisson_."

---

It was nearly three the same day that he sat on his sofa, sipping a glass of tea and watching the so-called outrageous cartoons when the doorbell rung. He'd given specific orders to his mother to lie and say he was grounded like the other kids if anyone came, and knowing Gregory, he'd send people to recruit him. And it was thrilling, knowing he was going to be asked for involvement in the war, but after that morning, he didn't want to risk it.

Which was why he was in such a surely mood.

He listened in on the conversation taking place, but it really didn't register until his mother called, "Christophe!" and wandered in to the living room with a sympathetic expression. "I'm sorry, _cherie_, but zey really want to talk to you."

"Et ez fine," he said, slipping off of the couch and walked to the door, looking over the three boys standing on his stoop. The one in orange was taller by a few inches because of his hat, with wide curious eyes and freckles. Around his neck hung a Star of David visibly. The one in brown seemed the shyer of the them all, staring at the ground, hands ringing at his jacket. The third was a gelluous glob of fat, the red jacket making the fatrolls even more noticeable. Christophe shuddered, almost dropping the cigarette he was lighting.

"Hi. Uh…we're gonna go rescue Terrence and Phillip from the USO show and we were just—"

Already in a bad mood, being jerked around (although politely), and the image of Cartman was too much; he reached out and grabbed the shy-one by the ruff on the collar of his jacket and shook him, spitting out a harsh, "Shh! Who are you? Who sent you?" although he already knew.

"That Gregory kid, he said you could sneak us in," Kyle said, stepping away from The Mole as he turned to face the Jew, squinting nastily at him.

"Are you telling me you intend to break into ze USO show, filled wiz zousands of soldiers, and break out Terrence and Phillippe?"

Cartman spoke up, his voice full of fat, grinding on Christophe's nerves even more and hitting a gag-reflex. "I though it was a pretty stupid idea, too."

Stan rubbed at his neck as Christophe unclenched his fist, releasing the boy. "We're La Resistance! We wanna save Terrence and Phillip, and stop the war and stuff."

Christophe shrugged, taking a drag on his cigarette. If they wanted to jack around, he could as well. He sighed disappointedly, loving how the three's faces lit up in alarm at jus the exhale of breath. "I can't 'elp you, I'm grounded in my room for ze next zree days."

Kyle sighed, seeming calmer. "So are we, our parents think we're at home right now. Why are you grounded?"

The lie was so easy, it slithered from his mouth, sugar-coated and begging to be eaten. "Why? Because God 'ates me, zat's why. 'e 'as made my life miserable, so I call 'im a cocksucking asshole, zen I get grounded."

"So you'll help us?"

Christophe shrugged as he took two steps back into the house, internally grinning, and jerked a thumb behind him. "Vairy well, meet me in ze backyard in five minutes." He lifted a hand, thumb and pinky away from his other three fingers. "We'll show God zat we're not going to fucking take any more of 'is—"

"What? Christophe, get in 'ere!" Yvette shouted from the living room. The brunette grinned sheepishly and threw down his cigarette, smashing it out with the toe of his boot as he slammed the door into the boys' stunned faces. Hands behind his back he walked into the living room to confront his mother, hands on her hips, frowning. She bent down, tilting his head to the right as she sniffed his collar.

"Were you saying naughty zings about God? And smoking! Maybe you should be grounded, Christophe! Of course since ze day ez almost over, ze punishment will start tomorrow. You 'ave one day and night of fun before a week of nozing, you understand me?"

"_Oui Maman_. Can I go out and play now?"

She waved her hand, dismissing him. He went up to his room, grabbing several different papers and black inkpens before descending back down. As soon as he got to the kitchen he grinned boldly and walked out the back door, demeanor changing as he spotted the three boys sitting on his swinging bench, attached to the large oak tree. He grimaced, feeling pity toward the tree for having to hold the fatfuck's weight.

He strode across the frozen ground, kicking snow and said firmly, "'ello, boys, let's get zis straight. I don't like you, you don't like me. Wiz zat clear, let's go over zis again. You are breaking out Terrence and Phillippe and want my hep to get you into ze USO show, yes?" They all nodded. "Okay zen, ze first zing zat happens is zis; you all get to sign zese." He handed out forms done professionally and pens, pointing to a few blanks. "Sign 'ere, 'ere, 'ere, and initial 'ere."

"What for?" Stan asked suspiciously as he uncapped the pen and started his signatures.

"Et's basically a statement zat says if you die in combat or whatever I'm not liable and you cannot sue me, yes?"

"I don't wanna sign this piece of crap!" Cartman scowled, throwing his pen at The Mole. Christophe caught it between his fingers, it falling down, rolling between them.

"You eizer sign et, or I don't 'elp you, _and_ I kick you in ze balls. Balls, sign, balls, sign, what's your choice, fatty?"

"Ay! I'm not fat!" Eric squealed, being smacked hard by Kyle who had already finished signing his papers. Scowling he snatched his pen back and did as he was told.

"Good, now ze ozer zing of importance ez payment. Because Gregory can be stingy wiz money, I'd like you all to sign as witness, persay, zat 'e was ze one zat sent you to me for 'ire." Again, they did as they were told, and he took all of the paperwork back into the house before reappearing to dazzle them.

"Alright, beetches, zis is 'ow we work. You listen to me at all fucking times, because I'm experienced and you boys are just fucking pussies compared to me. Zere ez a 'ill zat looks down over ze USO show, on ze West side—"

"Wicky, wicky, wick, wicky, wicky, wick, Fresh Cowboy from the Westside—"

"_SHUTUP!_" Christophe howled, lifting his foot and shoved it into Cartman's crotch. Eric let out a whoosh of air and double over, straining to say,

"I seri…ous…lah hate you…guys, seri…ous…lah."

Huffing Christophe crossed his arms, glaring daggers at Cartman, only a tad bit refreshed by the shocked faces on his friends. "Now, back to what I was saying. Zere ez a hill on ze westside of where ze USO show ez being 'eld, zat overlooks it entirely. We shall meet zere and continue on, unless eizer of you chicken out. If not we'll go down ze 'ill and cut ze electrical wire surrounding ze place, and pick a spot to continue breaching ze base, underground of course. Somewhere in zere we will split up, but I cannot tell you when until we are actually in zere fighting for our lives."

"…'kay."

"Bring a mirror and rope, and meet me on ze 'ill no later zen nine-zirty. If you're late I'll fucking stab somezing! Now go get ready, we 'ave a busy night a'ead of us all."

---

The night was crisp, cloudless, the moon hidden in the darkness, almost as if it knew they would need the cover of complete darkness. Cheers could be heard from the base where the USO show was being held, and spotlights flashed around the periphery. Christophe paced back and forth under a dead tree, kicking at the frozen ground, growling. Before coming here he'd gone to see Craig, telling him to stay the fuck away from Tweek unless he was dead, and left. It got his nerves working, gave him the edge that made him want to stabbity-death something.

Where were the others?

As if by magic they ran up, panting, Cartman tailing behind. Stan recovered first, wiping his hair back from his face. "We're…here."

"Yes, I'm not blind you fucking piece of sheet," Christophe hissed, throwing his hands up in the air for emphasis as he lit up, taking a drag to calm his nerves. He was excited about the whole ordeal, but one screw up like this could cause it all to come crashing down. "Come on, beetches."

They followed him, grunting up the hill to the top where they stopped to stare at the base with wide eyes. Even to him it seemed impressive, and he'd been glimpsing it for nearly an hour. "Zis is ze USO show, where zose military beeches intend to kill Terrence and Phillippe."

"Oh my God," Kyle breathed, either from the news or the sight, The Mole really didn't care.

"God? 'e ez ze biggest beetch of zem all," he said with a scowl, throwing down his already burnt out cigarette and started on a new one. Nicotine definitely helped keep his muscles from spazzing and pounding someone over the head with his shovel.

"We have to hurry, we rendez-vouse with the other kids at ten!" Stan urged, bouncing back and forth on his feet. Christophe glanced at his watch; it was already 9 40. He sighed and looked over to the three of them.

"You realize by doing zis zat we could be grounded for two, per'aps even zree weeks?"

"We're willing to take that risk."

Nodding he raised a brow, giving them (except Cartman) a few points for bravery; not many people would be hot for the job of infiltrating a base and helping the refugees escape. "Zen let's go!" he said, leaning his weight back and slid down the icy hill on the arch of his feet, musing at how the others just walked very fast to catch up. At the bottom the hill sloped, forming a ditch as a second hill started, the one the USO show was being held on. Christophe got onto his back, hardly minding if his clothing got dirty and snipped a few barbed wires carefully, gnashing on his cig at the same time.

"Be careful not to touch zis wire," he informed them as he slid under it with ease and rolled onto his stomach, continuing up the slope with an easy belly-walk, ignoring the cursing of the fat companion. At the edge of the slope he looked over and got to his knees, swearing. "Sheet! Ze USO show 'as already started! We are running out of time!"

"Can you see Terrence and Phillip?" Kyle asked, looking at him expectantly as the others caught up. He snorted, pulling out a Viewmaster and flipped through a few pictures, humouring himself. What did they think?

"Yes, but zey are 'eavily guarded. We 'ave to dig from 'ere as to not be seen. Come on beetches!" he howled, getting into a crouch and walked toward a small flat piece of land hidden from view in the shadows. Snapping his shovel from the baldric across his chest he slammed it into the ground, working at the frozen upper layer, and threw the dirt behind him. As soon as the first layer was stripped it made things easier and he was waist deep in the hole before Stan over.

"Hey, Mole, do you know where the clitoris is?"

He blinked, though didn't halt his hole digging. "Ze what?"

"The clitoris, I have to find the clitoris so I can get this Wendy girl to like me agai—"

Grinding his teeth he vaulted out of the hole, grabbing Stan by the shoulder and shook him. "'ey! You need to stop zinking wiz your dick! You 'ave to be on your toes, because I am _not_ going to be grounded again! Not for you, not for anybody!"

Stan fell away, surprised as Christophe jumped back into the hole and continued digging, throwing a nice clod of wet dirt in his face purposely. He sniggered to himself as he rounded off the hole perfectly and struck inward, knowing that mountain soil was already packed tight, and during winter it was like concrete. With the correct maneuvers his tunnel would last decades before collapsing in, if it ever did. Nine meters into the tunnel from the original hole he yelled, "_Come on beetches, and no flashlights_!"

He heard them fall to the bottom of the hole and scramble after him on their hands and knees, giving him some sort of satisfaction. He stopped digging, concentrating on what he heard above him, and the type of soil. It was still packed hard, and the roof was soft, smooth. He dug farther , feeling along the roof until he felt it before rocky, harder than before. _Tsk_ing he backtracked a few feet, until the rocky soil was about two feet away from the smooth soil and went upward at a diagonal, letting the loose soil fall into the extra space he dug out. It took maybe two minutes for the hole to open. He poked his head out, taking a quick survey of where everything and everyone was before falling back down, yelling, "Sheet!" Looking back to make sure the other boys were right before him he pointed upward and to the left, counting down on his fingers. Three, two, one…"Move, move!"

They bolted from the hole, following Christophe blindly to a large building and stopped at the backside, hidden from any soldiers that might walk by. Looking around to make sure it was safe he turned to the dirty boys. "Okay, we will split up 'ere. Let's synchronize watches." He lifted his wrist, looking to them. "Well?"

Kyle shuffled his feet nervously. "We don't have watches."

"You don't have watches?" The Mole repeated slowly to see if he'd heard them right.

"Dude, you didn't say anything about watches!"

Irritated Christophe growled, grabbing the ruff of Stan's collar once more and shook him violently. These kids would be the death of him…"What do you zink zis es, kid? TV kiddy 'our where we all sit around and lick Barney ze fucking dinosaur's pussy? Euh? Zis es real life, wiz consequences you take to ze grave!"

"Dude, we don't have watches!"

Christophe howled under his breath, dropping Stan and pulled at his hair. Maybe he shouldn't have visited Craig after all. "Sheet! Did you bring ze mirror?" he asked mockingly, as if they were too stupid to comprehend.

Stan searched through Cartman's bag, nodding as he pulled it out. "Got it."

"And ze rope?"

"Check."

"And ze buttfor?"

Kyle's brows knit together as he looked to his best friend for help and finally asked, "What's a buttfor?"

"For pooping, silly," he replied with a twitch of lips, inhaling on his cigarette and exhaled through his mouth. Kids these days were just too damn gullible. He threw the cancer-stick to the ground, smashing it ot as he looked at the boys. "Now listen carefully. I will dig under ze stage, and wiz zat bedrock, I will need more time. Stan and Kyle, get near ze stage and stall ze show anyway you ca. Do whatever it takes to keep zat show going until I get ze prisoners." They nodded and he turned a steady gaze on Cartman. "Cartman, over zere ez ze electrical box. You must sneak over zere and shut et off before I return wiz Terrence and Phillip, or ze alarms will sound and I will be attacked by guard dogs. Got et?"

"okay."

"You _must_ shut off ze alarms! I fucking 'ate guard dogs!" he yelled, ignoring Cartman's comment as he walked away. "If anyzing goes wrong, make a sound like a dying giraffe."

"What's a dying giraffe sound like?"

He cupped his hands over his mouth, opening the top one slowly to release the sound, creating a higher pitch. "_Muuuuwaaaaa, muuuuwaaaaa_!"

"…'kay."

Nodding Christophe grinned, swinging his shovel in an arch to hit the ground with a soft clink. "Let's go."

"Be careful, dude."

He raised a brow, grinning as he continued his game of jacking the boys around. "Careful? Was my muzza careful when she stabbed me in ze 'eart wiz a clozs 'anger while I was still in ze womb?" Only seeing widened eyes Christophe waved them away and sliced away the frozen ground, beginning once more his job of tunneling.

It was actually soothing, being underground, so close to the earth and away from irritating Colorado kicks. He shoveled away, feeling the roof occasionally to know where to start his diagonal upward. Rocky roofing usually meant there was a concrete building above, with pieces of it and the foundation crumbling into the soil. Smooth was a sign of flat land or nothing of real importance above. Soil with fibers signaled a tree on the surface, while soil with water piping running through it usually had moist, somewhat muddy soil.

He stopped, hearing a soft buzzing of electricity through the thunderous claps of cheering from the soldiers. He went upward, knowing well that Terrence and Phillip had to be right above, or in a few feet radius around him; he was scoring to the left of the hole. The upward digging was done quickly, knowing time was running short and smoothing out corners couldn't be done at the moment. Feeling the hard bedrock he cursed and planted the handle of the shovel to his shoulder and shoved upward with his weight, breaking through the paneling and popped out of the hole with the Canadian's indeed on his left. Anxiety ran through his body—he'd done it, he'd gotten through the hard part, now getting them to the rendezvous point wouldn't be hard.

"Shh, I'm 'ere to rescue you. After I release you, follow me through ze tunnel."

His lightheaded victory only lasted seconds as he heard the call, and was blinded by a spotlight. Scrambling he put a hand over his eyes, white flooding his vision still and multicoloured circles blossomed. "Ah sheet!"

"A spy, get him!" a woman's voice yelled to the left before snapping and growls could be heard. Christophe let out a squeal and dropped back into the tunnel, completely blind as to where he was going visually, although he knew every hole he dug like the back of his hand and traversed this one quickly. But not quick enough, he found out as a Doberman Pincher grabbed his ankle, teeth shredding the leather, biting through it to the bone. He yowled in pain, kicking it in the face and scrambled a second quicker, adrenaline keeping him from stopping. "Sheet, sheet, sheet! Fucking guard dogs, sheet!" he yelled as he stumbled at the diagonal upward, digging nails into the soil to pull him up. Teeth and claws tore at his body, tearing skin and ripping muscle from bone. The pain was horrible, but damned if he died in his own creation! He dropped a small bottle of Catimine oil and jammed his lighter open before dropping it as he pulled himself from the hole into the awaiting arms of the little Jewish boy.

"Ze alarm, zey went off!" he coughed, mucus clogging his throat.

"Yeah, that was my bad. Sorry," the piggish voice answered.

His vision danced, white bursting and then imploding inward, to explode out in a wash of colour. They were going to be the death of him, and with him gone, he was would be the death of them. "Hold me, it's…so vairy cold. Zere is no 'ope now, you must get out of 'ere."

"We can't leave without you!" Kyle yelled angrily, seeing that they were in deep shit now without him. He laughed, blood oozing from his nose, but even with Death upon him he still jacked them around.

"It's okay, I'm done for."

"No! We can't leave without you, we don't know where the Hell we are!" Kyle hissed, shaking him by the shoulders. Christophe winced, spitting up blood and wiped at his mouth for the effect of some decency.

"Where ez your God when you need 'im, euh? Where is your beautiful, merciful faggot now?" he pushed Kyle away, although the red-head still clasped his hand as if it would somehow keep him from dying. He snorted, thoughts going out to Tweek, and he smiled although the situation didn't call for it. "'ere I come, God. 'ere I come, you fucking rat!"

The passed two months played out in his head, his friendship with Tweek, punching him in the eye, Christmas, staying over at his house, their talk earlier that day. Maybe Tweek wouldn't go completely mental with his death…he only hope so. His vision finally stopped its twisted dance of implode-explode, the blinding white slowly fading at the edges.

_Oh Twitchy, I am so vairy sorry, live well wizout me my friend. Oh God you assramming homosexual raging boner, you, you know 'ow to really screw wiz me, don't you? I 'ope I go to Hell you sonuvabeetch, et'd be better zen ever seeing you_.

He took a breath, a song his father had taught him as a child running through his head. Why not?

"_Now ze light, she fades, and darkness settles in. But I will find strength_—"

"No Mole, hang on!"

"_I will find pride wizin_!"

"We'll get you home…"

"_Because alzough I die_."

"I can't face my mother…"

"_Our freedom will be won_."

"…Not alone."

"_Though I die La Resistance lives_…on?"

His eyelids drifted closed, heavy, and his vision cleared completely. He took a ragged breath and released it through burning lungs, and suddenly felt no more pain.

---

Tweek huddled by his window, alone, wrapped in a blanket, staring in the direction of the base. Seconds ticked by, turning to minutes quickly as impending doom was awaited. He glanced at his lava lamp briefly, his mom's _Dido_ CD playing in the background making him sick. Or maybe that was the crawling feeling of Death mixed with Curson clawing at his mental shields. He sighed heavily and closed his eyes, falling into his mind.

"Stop it, it hurts!" he hissed at the demon, scratching claws on the blockade feverishly.

"_Take the sight by force, repent_."

Tweek shook his head mentally, glowering at the ecstatic Bat King. "No way, you aren't fucking taking my sight!"

"_Naught to lose, Death awaits. A pinky promise for its return?_"

He made an excellent point; if he was going to get bombed or tortured, why not just give Curson what he wanted. With a reluctant nod he lifted his mental pinky and extended it into the barrier. Pointy teeth flashed as he did the same, wrapping two inches of claw around his finger. At the touch Tweek shrieked, both physically and mentally, a burning sensation running through his eyes. He grabbed at his face mentally before the pain dulled, and he watched from his mind as his physical self opened his eyes, seeing everything in a different perspective.

Instead of being dark, it was incredibly light, although the colours were muted, and red transparent fog hung over the town. Everything was double, the first vision being holy, bright, the second dismal and dead, creating that middle, muted ground. His psychical self chuckled, the sound throaty and purring, unlike his normal voice, although the sentence structure was normal English; guess not everything can change.

"_There in the distance, that's where it shall happen. The ground will split and the Dark Lord shall walk the Earth once more. Don't be surprised, sugarmuffin, I can feel it; he won't bother with you, you're mine, and Satan knows not to touch what is mine._"

"Why is that?" Tweek asked timidly in his mind, looking to the place his body pointed.

"_Oh, you aren't very resourceful at all! You've got it in your head—excuse the pun—that I'm a demon; how very wrong you are! Hell, been there, done that, pissed a few people off in my stay, came here, fucked around and fucked with you. Now that you have somewhere to start research, I think you should._"

"You still didn't answer me."

He felt his lips curl into a sadistic snarl. "_Because Satan is afraid of me_."

The digital clock by his bed flashed 10 15 and he was tossed from his own mind, slammed into his body, every nerve pricking, and he swore he should feel the blood pump through his body. His eyes lit on fire, along with his nerves, tongue, ear canals, and sinuses as his sensory systems were turned back to his control. He screamed in unbearable pain, and passed out.

---

_Love? Gyah! Love is just a chemical reaction by the brain engraved to increase the population! It's not real! It's not_ real!

_You playing with us, Tweekster?_

_Who knows, we'll see, won't we?_

_Choose your poison wisely, there's no stepping back._

_You're falling for your best friend._

_You're sick._

_But they're my friends._

_One._

_Your mouth met his, that's a kiss, end of story._

_It feels wonderful._

_Would you still like me if I was a girl?_

_What? No, no, no, no—_

_My head hurts._

_Two._

_I'm sorry, really, but fuck you, Tweek._

_I want to be friends._

_I have no choice._

_Forgive me?_

_I'm on the pills._

_Three._

_Tweeky, calm down—_

_But you keep me sane._

_Eternal slumber, this is not, wake up and greet you sweetness._

_What's it like having a crazy son?_

_Because Satan is afraid of me._

Maman_, what ez Twitchy doing 'ere?_

_Four._

_I don't wanna go home!_

_The other kids, they pick on me a lot._

_Twitchy, you are mistaken._

_Maybe, or maybe I'm _dying_! Oh God!_

_Dude, you've gotta sleep._

_Five._

_What's our mission, Craig?_

_Don't touch Tweek._

_Why not anger?_

_Dead ez better, but not for 'im._

_I can't be friends with you anymore._

_You're ze voice zat I like._

_Craig doesn't like change._

The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had.

--

Music, he heard music, the notes swirling through the choppy phrases assaulting his mind. At least he felt himself, some twisted part of his mind. He struggled, who was he? Tweek Tweak, local nutjob, friend of Christophe DeLorne, ex-bestfriend of Craig Nommel. He was dead because of a war. But he couldn't be dead if he was thinking, right?

He struggled, not knowing which way was up and which was down, so he sat floating, reconstructing his thoughts. He'd given Curson his body, and was slammed back into it, and passed out. What happened after that? Was he in Hell? No, the crazy bat-thingit said he couldn't go there. Then he was in his Self? That had to be it. He looked around, seeing the spiraling abyss above him, and decided that was down. He switched around, and swam.

What harm could it do?

--

Feeling came back to his body in stages before slamming into him like a winter gale. He moaned through a dry throat, eyes fluttering open to register his ceiling. How long had he been there? He sat up slowly, blinking and stumbled to his feet. A look outside the window showed it to be around midday, and everything looked normal enough. He walked out of the room, noticing he was still in the outfit he had been in when he passed out. Down the stairs he saw his mother, who didn't seem to interested that he was awake. Was he really dead? Was that it? He shook the thought out of his head and croaked, "Morning Mom."

Eavan glanced up at him and smiled, beckoning him with a wave. "Morning pumpkin, come down and get a glass of water for that throat."

He nodded, loping down the stairs slowly and entered the kitchen where she extended a glass of water to him. He eyed it, feeling like this was all too surreal, his vision playing out in quick moving pictures, like being drunk. He shook his head and gulped the water; maybe it was just a side effect from passing out. Just to make sure he was going to investigate.

"I'm going out, okay Mom?" he said as he grabbed is coat and shoes. She gave him a hug and sent him on his way, something odd of her to do. He shrugged it off and wandered the streets, looking back and forth between the melting snow and cars driving by. It was a weird change from the desolation of a day—or he imagined it to be a day—ago.

"Tweek, yo, Tweek!" a voice called out, and he spun on his heel, watching Kyle run up to him, panting. He smiled, eyes a bit widened to see the caffeine-addict out and about. His expression turned glum quickly though, as he remembered the news he'd come to deliver. "You hang out with that Mole kid, right?" A brief nod was the only answer. "Well, I have some bad news—"

Tweek smiled, imagining this to be some sick mind-game from the death. It was like a _Geiko_ commercial, "Tweek I have some bad news, you're still unconscious and this is all a figment of your imagination to keep you from going crazy. But I saved a bunch of money on my car insurance!"

"He kinda of…you know…died during the war." His mind-game dropped as his stomach sank, the surreal feeling shattering, leaving Tweek standing in the road with clear vision, knowing exactly what had happened the previous night. "But since Kenny wished it all back he could still be alive, we just, never went to check so—"

Before Kyle could finish Tweek was racing off in the direction of Christophe's neighborhood, tears in his eyes. How could the French boy even think about doing anything related with the war after their talk? After what had happened to his father? It was reckless, dumb! Christophe was dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb.

No, he was dumb. He was dumb for giving into Curson, knowing well that South Park would some how deflect the population's death. He was dumb for being homeschooled and leaving his friends. He was dumb for listening to Christophe when he said he wouldn't die. He was just dumb because he was Tweek.

Heaving breaths he ran across the road, taking a sharp turn, a stitch in his side aching. But he wasn't going to stop, no, he'd be even more foolish to stop, considering he was standing in the middle of a four-lane road. He dodged cars and took a right, finally on Christophe's street. Had he really run the entire seven-minute drive without stopping? Standing in front of Christophe's peach house, he guessed so. Rushing to the door he hit the bell, panting puffs of smog as he double over, using the wall for support. The door opened, but he saw no one in the doorway, then again he was now staring up at the ceiling above the stoop. When did he fall over? But hew asn't on the ground, no, he felt arms around his shoulders, knees in the small of his back. He blinked as Christophe's concerned face appeared in his vision.

"You aren't…you aren't dead," he breathed with relief, tension dissipating immediately. The Mole snorted, a cold hand running along his cheek.

"No, but you might as well be wiz zat fever of yours."

Tweek rolled his head to the side, looking at the sky once more. It was soft pink with sunrise; had he imagined his Mom giving him water, Kyle running up to him, nearly getting hit by a car? His mind answered; _yes_. What was this, some new type of insanity? He knew that answer as well; _no_. Still same ol' same ol' Tweek, just not quite there.

"What were you zinking running 'ere from your 'ouse in ze middle of ze night?"

He let out a breath, closing his eyes as sleep grabbed at him. Maybe a nap would make it all better. He felt his cheek sting, the only sign Christophe had slapped him.

"Tweek, what were you zinking?"

"The answer was barely above a whisper, "I wasn't."

* * *

**A/N:** Whoo, overdue chapter! Sorry...again. I need to stop bitching around with other things. I must say, the ending on this one fucked with me, I don't even think I know what happened oo I'll have to reread that. And major props go to my DVD player, for not dying while I played scenes over and over of SP: BLU to get it right xD

Sorry again for adding in Christophe...I COULDN'T HELP MYSELF x3 But don't worry, this doesn't mean there's some segway into Christophe/Tweek...no No NO! Chris is like a reassurance pole, he tells you want you want to hear and is there just because. But since the whore didn't STAY DEAD this means there's another chapter before they all hit middleschool and get sucked into hormonalrages! Fun fun.

Length...I'll try to work on that. I swear. But I like it, it's like my trademark. People see a really small scroller and moan out, "FUCKING CORRIE! Writing _28_ pages of bullcrap". That's right folks, twenty-eight. Maybe I'll beat IGB with wordcount! Yippie!


	5. 1 4 Perceptivity

**Note:** "Tarryall Creek" is a real place in South Park National Reserve, Colorado. However, because some of the geological aspects were changed to fit my needs, I've renamed it "Terryall", like it usually appears in any of my fics.

* * *

1.4 Perceptivity of Silken Webs

**per·cep·tive** adj.

1. Of or relating to perception. _Perceptive facilities  
_2. a. Having the ability to percieve; keen in discernment  
b. Marked by discernment and understanding; sensitive

Betrayal, misconceptions, can all cloud how clearly one thinks. What one may believe is the opposite of another's thought, yet the same issue is at hand. Is it tomato, or tomatoe? Of course this particular problem isn't as simple as the accents people put onto their words. The trails are at hand, and waters are tested for safety, or lurking monsters waiting just out of sight for the foot to be stuck in.

---

Through the lights, blaring sirens, rush of medical personelle, Tweek found himself admitted to Hellpass Hospital with a respiratory infection, caused by the toxic amount of gun powder and arsenic in the thin, mountain air. The first day or so was spent in a medicated stupor, arms fed with IVs and things to increase the white-blood count in his body. His fever decreased to 99 degrees as he was forced Tylenol 3, before surprising them all and climbing to nearly 104. With the high temperature came, once more, the dementia that was packaged with it.

Over the course of three days Dr. Rizzo's medical establishment threatened to take the hospital to court over not allowing their patient to take his prescribed medication for such hallucinations and mind-incantations. They argued it was only the high fever that was causing it, laid out the medical records, scientific studies, any proof they could against Dr. Rizzo, and watched as the psychiatrist office backed off. During which time Tweek was so far gone that he hardly understood he was the reason for the large-scaled legal dispute.

The sixth day the temperature had declined once more, staying at a steady 100 degrees, and his head cleared. Having spent three days prior so deep in himself there was no tangible thought, he felt detached, numb from his body, although he had a feeling that was the work of Curson. Throughout the event the self-proclaimed non-demon stayed quiet, hardly there at all. Which was proven quite true; the Bat-King was not in the cage Tweek had created, and that whole level of his psyche was a ruin. But the lingering presence of Curson was still there, faintly, giving the impression that he was wandering where he shouldn't.

As the aphrodisiacs were minimized pieces from the night of the war began to fall into place. He'd stayed at home, watching as everything unfolded from his window; his mother was out with the other woman of town, being marched around by Sheila Broflovski, and his father was enrolled into the army. He'd hated being alone on the night everything would end, but in a separate sense, he wasn't alone. Curson had taken over, rambled about Satan, the ground splitting, and at 10 15 he'd been slammed harshly back into his body and passed out. Again came the question he couldn't answer, _why_ had that happened? But that didn't matter, it'd happened, and he'd awaken in some far-off mind state and run to Christophe's, only to be taken to the hospital. And now he could hardly keep his baring straight while Curson was no where to be found in his mind; he decided he had to get rid of the bat-thingit.

The seventh day he was allowed visitors besides his parents, and Eavan had announced Christophe would be by later that afternoon. A wave of happiness rushed through his stomach, knowing he'd get to see the Frenchmen, and struggled to clear his mental fog, only to be tugged back down, restrained in the silvery haze. An irritable voice rang through the haze, purring out, "_Vollies of arrows, shot; resistance is sinfulness_." Hardly in the mindframe to understand the riddle he fought harder against the mental restraints, invisible hands dragging him down further. In consciousness he barely noticed the cursing of doctors rushing about his bed, pricks of needles, cool rush of IV medication, on his own body buckling on the hard hospital-addition bed.

He relapsed, in the matter of a few hours, a medical phenomenon that no one understood, except perhaps Curson. Locked once more in a medicated befuddlement in his mind, the Bat-King snarled, ripping through Tweek's Self to the ruin of his caged level of psyche, where the blonde sat, twiddling his thumbs as if nothing was wrong.

"_Uselessness! Fought fabrication, infiltrated but own destruction. Told you for naught! Selfless eradication was but the thought!_"

Tweek sighed heavily, his breath whispery, tinged blue in the utter blackness. He stared at the clawed grey toes presented before him and looked up into the flaring scarlet orbs looming. "What'd you do to me?"

Throwing his hands up Curson snorted. "_The rose had no thrones when picked._"

"You said I would otherwise be dead! Why resist when you're going to die?" Tweek asked meekly, squinting, body shaking steadily. He flinched as the Bat King kneeled down, brushing claws through his tangled hair. "What did you do?"

"_Panel is mine to rule, struggling dominance, and decline._"

The riddles were harder to understand, preoccupied elsewhere. He shook his head, smacking Curson's hand away from him, and bit his lip. What did he mean? What panel? Whispering the sentence under his breath, and understanding the context used, Tweek moaned, glaring at the thing before him with heat. He edged away, scooting backwards on his butt and stood in a flurry. Before he knew what had happened there was one of the mentally constructed arrows protruding from Curson's left eye, black oozing from his face, but he failed to seem hurt.

"You took my body? My mind? Jesus Christ! _Get out, get out, get out_!"

Grimly the Bat King stood, a hand trailing to the base of the arrow and yanked, things thicker than blood flying in an arch from his face. "_Hell is the key, open the gates and clarity set free. Till decided, two work the shell._"

Tweek screamed, fought, shouted, cursed a he was thrown off his equilibrium and thrown harshly upward, spinning. He _had_ to get Curson out, now just how could it be done?

---

A day passed and the white wash of hospital colours and medicated atmosphere was brightened, uplifted; Christophe was coming to visit. Despite the dreary, nervous feeling in his stomach in anticipation of seeing the French boy and assuring this wasn't all a figment of his imagination to keep him from insanity, he was giddy. It had been almost two weeks of sitting in the same hospital bed, being forced the same disgusting food, IVs dripping chemicals he couldn't pronounce into his blood. Just knowing Christophe was coming as enough to let himself do as Curson said for once and not fight against the mental restraints keeping him from being fully in control.

It was just after a lunch of ham-club sandwiches, stale potato chips dipped in ketchup, and orange juice that the nurse came in, smiling brightly at him. After two weeks they'd gotten to know each other, so Tweek was only really comfortable around her, although he'd yet to learn her name. She strutted over in her flats and rested a hand against his forehead, like she did every afternoon after noonmeal.

"How are you feeling, Tweek? Nauseous at all?"

He shook his head and sipped his drink, clearing his throat as he replied, "No, no I'm not nauseous. And I feel fine." His voice was hoarse, dry, vocal cords drawn tight from having been unused in proper conversation for so long.

The nurse ran a hand through his hair, away from his warm forehead and checked the clarity of his eyes. Seeming satisfied she fluffed his pillows and patted his knee. "Well you're a bit warm, and no doubt still have a low fever, but you should be good to go any day now! Isn't that great?"

"Yeah, I miss my friends," he said, fiddling with the edge of the standard white bedsheets. He felt disgusting, like he needed a shower, and he was sure if he touched his hair it would be limp and oily. He shuddered at the thought.

"Well, it so happens to see one of them has come to see how you're doing! Let me go get him, alright?" Without waiting for an answer she disappeared back out of the door of the private room and could be heard speaking to that familiar, accented voice. A moment later Christophe poked his head in and slowly crossed the threshold.

"You look like sheet," he said calmly, giving Tweek a once over as he approached, hands held behind his back. The blonde laughed feebly, the attempt turning into a vicious, tear-producing cough. Wincing, Christophe handed him a glass of water and watched Tweek down it in a gulp.

"Yeah, well, I don't feel much above shit so it works," he said, a faint smile crossing his lips. The French boy dropped whatever he was holding behind his back, kicking it out of view and stepped up to the edge of the bed, a free hand grasping the side rails hand enough to turn knuckles white.

"You scared me zat morning, I 'ad no idea what 'ad 'append, you were just running and zen you fell and weren't responding. I zought you 'ad died or somezing," he said slowly, watching his hand ring the rail.

"Well, I didn't," Tweek croaked. "I just, I heard from Kyle you were dead and had to go."

Christophe looked up at that, raising a brow. "But Kyle would 'ave still been fighting wiz 'is muzza, or singing along wiz ze town zat ze war 'ad ended."

"Yeah, it was a delusion," he said, sighing, before realizing what that statement inclined. "Wait, what? How would you know if Kyle was doing those things, you weren't participating in the war." Christophe glanced down for an instant before looking steadily at Tweek, tattling on himself. The blonde bit his lip, tasting blood as he counted to ten. In his mind tittering laughter rang out and his vision blurred as a soft foreign tongue floated in his ears.

"How could you, after our talk? You could have _died_!"

"And I did," Christophe snapped, glaring devilishly. "But 'ow could I not, et ez in my blood! I am a mercenary, I live for ze challenges, ze dares, ze risks. And zis was ze perh-fect opportunity; et was a fucking war! Sheet! Et ez not like I just waltz in wizout preparation, I was _asked_ by a dear friend and could not refuse ze offer. You must understand, I 'ad you in my zoughts zroughout ze ordeal, et wasn't as if I was doing zis to spite you, I really wanted et."

He took a breath and counted to ten again before nodding; he did _distantly_ understand the concept Christophe was trying to push. "So what'd your Mom think of it?"

Tweek watched as his friend shuddered, despite the smile that broke across his cracked lips. "Well, when I stepped inside she zrew 'erself at me, kissed, coddled, telling me 'ow worried she was and couldn't believe I 'ad done somezing so stupid and rash, since she'd seen ze performance on television. And zen she 'ad a fit, 'issing and screaming about 'ow I could 'ave been so vairy 'urt, and she scolded, punished, slapped until she finally grounded me." The French boy lifted the sleeve of his sweater, exposing a colourful, green-tinged bruise spreading up his forearm to the biceps. "Muzza shows 'er love in strange ways."

"Oh God, Mole, I'm sorry."

Christophe rolled his eyes and leaned against the bed, overstepping wires and tubes as he did so. "Euh, God, 'e's ze biggest fucking douche of zem all. I mean zey sent me to ze fucking Golden Gates when I kicked ze bucket, what ze 'ell is zat! If God can see evairyzing—and let me stress, evairyzing includes ze middle fingers pointed at ze sky and burned Bibles—zen 'e would know of my 'ate for 'im and 'e would send me to 'ell, right? But no ze bastard—"

"Wait, _wait_," Tweek said, interrupting a miffed looking Mole. "You _died_? But you're here, oh Jesus, does that mean I'm in Heaven, that I'm dead too? Fuck! I never told—"

"Shut up you fucking prat," Christophe spat, though the humour shining in his blue orbs said he wasn't angry. "Of course I died, I already said zat, are you deaf? And I'm 'ere because of some beetch named Kenny wished evairysing back to normal, or so I was told. And as I 'ave witnessed, evairyzing ez back to normal, except _you_."

Taking that information in Tweek sighed, another piece of the puzzle falling into place, though an uncharacteristically nice Curson helped with that. 10 15 Satan had burst through the Earth's crust, and in his appearance Curson was forced back into his host's body, unable to stay in the same realm of existence as the High Lord of Hell. Tweek had been broken down to a remote part of his Self, and dragged back into Reality when Kenny made his wish, because things were wished to their normal state before the war. And in turn the sickening launch between physical planes chiseled at his immune system, allowing him to get sick.

Tweek cocked his head, oily hair falling across his right eye at the movement as he tried to look as dumbfounded as possible. "What to you mean I'm not normal?"

"Don't play dumb," Christophe growled, leaning over the bed to be eye level with the blonde. "You are in ze 'ospital and 'ave been 'ere for weeks. Zat ez not normal."

"Well I'm sick, why be out of the hospital?"

Christophe's eerie eyes settle on Tweek, causing the blonde to shudder under the intensity. It was as if The Mole was boring into the lie, trying to decipher why it was being thrown around. "You are not just sick, I 'ad a lung infection back in France because of a chemical spill in ze area, but I was not admitted into a 'ospital for zis long. Et ezn't normal, so what ez wrong wiz you? You aren't going to die, are you?"

Tweek sighed and looked down at his lap, shaking his head, breaking free of that hard, concerned gaze. "No, I'm not going to die, but…I can't tell you what's wrong, you won't believe me so it's not worth loosing you as a friend."

"I promise I won't leave you," Christophe urged, placing a callused hand over Tweek's soft one. "I 'ave told you evairyzing, about my fazza and so much more zat I only said because I trust you. Do you not trust me?"

"Of course I do! I just…I just can't tell you…I'm afraid Christophe, I just…can't."

"_A gamble, shown in the stars as lost; you rolled snakes eyes_."

For a split second Christophe looked disheartened before the casual, impassive look he usually wore fell into place and he shrugged, drawing his hand back. "Okay, zat's just fine, if you don't want to tell me zen okay. 'ope you get better, and I 'ad better leave before ze nurse kicks me out." He took a step back before turning on his heel and stalked out, hardly hearing the choked out farewell from his friend.

Tweek sighed and lowered his eyes, about to call for the nurse before something brown caught his eyes on the floor. It took several minutes before he worked up the courage to peek over the edge of the bed, and spotted perhaps the ugliest thing he'd ever laid eyes on. He snatched it up quickly from the cold tile floor and looked it over, moving it every which way. It was a stuffed toy of some sort, like an ugly dog without ears and a tail, a pointy snout, and flat clawed feet. He actually had to read the tag to figure out what it was; a mole toy. A second later he realized that was what Christophe had dropped, a get-well gift. Sure, it was a little odd, and fugly as Hell, but the thought behind it was what counted.

He hugged it to his chest, feeling his stomach drop into a void, wanting nothing less then Death and sobbed.

It was happening again.

---

He was released four days later with the advice to "drink lots of liquids and avoid dairy products". The very first thing he did was beg his parents to take him to an ice cream parlour for a sundae, and they did it without hesitation. Of course, it didn't settle too well that evening, giving him a stomachache that lasted a few hours, but it was worth it.

Over the course of two weeks Tweek hardly saw Christophe, not out of his own ignorance, but due to catching up on schoolwork. He was so behind in his studies he couldn't take off the freeweek he usually had, instead sat down and crammed his head with knowledge about geometric shapes, a quick overview of the American government, grammar and vocab, and random tidbits of science. By the time his break did come up, he was wiped out.

The break happened to occur the week of Valentine's day. Being out of public school and not forced to write cards to everyone in the class was great, and Tweek didn't even feel a bit of remorse to breaking tradition. It'd always been a bitch to write personalized messages on the cards when he didn't talk to half of the kids in his class, and liked even less then that. So it was a complete surprise when his mom handed him a valentine obviously made out by someone his age by the blocky, large handwriting. Inside of the Terrence and Phillip card was written a note that said:

_Tweek, you kill me. When will you come back? Spring break is soon, see you then?_

It wasn't signed, but he knew it had to be from someone in his old class, because the only other person he knew was Christophe, and he didn't beat around subjects. Also included was a dogtag on a chain, blank on both sides, though his parents suggested he get his name engraved on it and did as they said. As the temperature warmed up, the ID tags took place of the scarf Christophe had gotten him for Christmas.

The two ignored the hospital argument completely when they hung out, as if it hadn't happened at all. Christophe took the opportunity to show Tweek out away from town, along the shallow banks of the Terryall Creek, north toward Middle Park. In his friend's company, Tweek was oblivious of how far out they went into the forest in the directions of the mountains, any signs of civilization gone completely. Time didn't seem to exist as they trekked in, watching furry little Satanic creatures waddle by, though the sun passing overhead toward the west told otherwise.

Of course, the hike was well worth the snake incidents (one gutsy rattler got its head chopped off and spat on by an irritated Frenchmen) and mosquito bites. As the Terryall was joined by the Michigan and Jefferson rivers it turned hard right and became an underground channel. There, the water turned into a lovely aqua-marine colour, a startling contrast to the normally brown water marked by the region. As the Terryall spurted from the underground reservoir heading downstream into Park County, that enchanting coloured water played among the rocks, creating dazzling waterfalls that reflected in the afternoon sun. To say the least, it was a magical experience.

They sat and talked, voices harmonizing with the rushing of cool water over the stones, wind rustling the trees, birds singing in choirs through the sky. Christophe delved into a theory based solely on the conniving truth of woman and girls. Throughout the heated rant Tweek thought of nothing else except one Bertha-Red, though wasn't sure as to why she appeared in his mind's eye. She was always pretty nice, except maybe to some of the girls. So The Mole went on and on about the girls he hated in South Park, being just about every one of them, except a few of the adults.

It was then his turn to rant and contemplate, and he did so about rabies and the effect on squirrels. Christophe smiled all the way through the frenzied speech of Tweek, accompanied by twitching and spazzing. Somehow rabies launched into a segment of mountain flowers, allergies, cold chills, and possible people that gave them cold chills. Tweek's list included Eric due to his psychotic nature, Dr. Kevorkian aka Dr. Death, Mr. Slave because he was just whacky, and Christophe because being stared down by him was chilling. Christophe found it rather odd that Craig wasn't included in the list and questioned it, being snapped a reply of, "Craig's too much of a pussy." The Mole's list of chilling people included Winona Ryder, his mom, all woman of the world, Elton John, and Tweek.

As Tweek began to sing "Suspension" by _Mae_ under his breath Christophe looked at his watch, amazed to see it was already 5 30. The sun began to decline through the treetops as they headed back along the river, but it's never quite that easy, as they soon realized when the channel forked off. Now lost, The Mole's sense of direction failing him, Tweek bust into hysterics. Dark quickly enveloped around them, and shadows became sharper, golden eyes watching them from every corner of the forest. Christophe silently vowed never to do this again as Tweek clutched at his shirt and yelled to the Fates and Jesus to save them.

However, those beings decided not to pay heed to the schizophrenic boy, and rather they came across two teenagers engaging in tongue wars, the smell of pot heavy in the air. At first the highschoolers just looked onto the two dirty boys with disgust and told them to get lost, until Christophe swung out his bladed shovel and threatened to beat them bloody if they didn't take the boys back into town. They laughed in his face until he swung the shove head, catching the dimebags and threw them back behind him into the river. At that the teens hissed but agreed to take them to the main river and no further.

That was enough for Christophe, who easily found his way to Stark's Pond, and then into town. Of course, several of the parents were sent out searching for the boys, and when they were found strutting into town, yawning and covered in dirt, they were both grounded harshly.

Tweek was forced multitudes of homework during this period, not allowed on the computer unless he was watching lectures or doing work. IM was blocked from his capabilities, allowing no communication with the outside world, so he had no idea how bad Christophe had it. Until spring break rolled around and the French boy grumbled he was going to visit family friends in Quebec, cringing at the prospect of those idiot fake-French bitches. The day after he announced it he was on a plane with his mother, flying to Canada. Tweek himself was visiting family as well, but he had three days to kill, and no friends around to do it.

So it was a pleasant surprise when the doorbell rung and Butters was standing on his stoop, ringing his hands together, watching his shuffling feet. He explained how he came over to check up on him because Tweek hadn't been seen out and around for a while and a lot of people were worried, just didn't want to get attacked by his father's metaphors, though he was perfectly okay with them. So Tweek hung out with Butters and his friend, Conner, a kid he'd seen in class but never really bothered to associate with. It was during a session of hanging out with the two, playing frisbee outside (though it was a tough game when Butters couldn't catch, Tweek threw himself to the ground every time the thing came at him, and Conner was never playing attention) that he realized just how antisocial he had been toward the other kids, staying with his group rather than branching out.

The forth day he was strapped in the car being driven to Wyoming, listening to his dad sing absently in the front seat to some outdated radio station. They were visiting Aunt Cathy on his mom's side, a ritzy-prissy woman with a temper; she was the Scottish to his mom's Irish side, as his father often joked. She was quite a character, flustered all of the time, insisting that he be called by his middle name, Iestyn, while in her company. She poked, prodded, complained about wanting a little girl to play with her daughters, who were worse than she was.

Grizel was the oldest of the three girls, a thirteen-year-old in the midst of her grunge stage of life. She _hated_ anything to do with her mother and her ways, preferring to stay out on the far reaches of the O'Sullivan family farm, rather than being under Catriona's watchful eyes. She was the only sensible one of the bunch, down to earth and good-natured, expressing herself in art. Anything from nature was her medium: mud, clay, silt, berry juices, fresh leaves, anything. But he liked her for more than that; she, like him, didn't have the unnaturally curly red or brown hair that went along with the family, but instead remained unruly and blonde. It marked them as the outcast, and they stuck together each time these family get togethers happened.

Then there were the twins, Effie the devil of the two six-year-olds. Out of the three she gained the hardcore Scottish temper, and threw tantrums when she didn't get what she wanted. She always had an uncanny habit of blaming things on others so she never got in trouble. In short, she was a spoiled little menace that made Craig's sister's friend, Kizzee, seem like a kitten.

In comparison there was Delwyn, the younger, sweeter twin. She was absolutely adorable in every way and knew how to play her charm, despite being the naïve one. Even though she played nice and apologized for everything (which grated on the nerves after a while), her incredible cluelessness was frightening and unattractive.

But no, Eavan and Catriona did not complete the pot of O'Sullivans, for included in the gathering was Harri, the big brother that was the Welsh counterpart, and Aaren, the jolly old Englishman and little brother. Together the four made up a genealogical UK, spreading different traditions throughout the mingling of their kids (Aaren the only one without, being 'too young' in his opinion to knock up his fiancée).

Tweek hated it every bit as much as the majority of the kids, especially Thomas, Harri's only son, going on his sixteenth in a week. He was a grade-A student and picky, knowing what battles he could win and fretted for a day whole, grumbling about idiot little kids and wankers of adults. Except for Tweek, Thomas always stole him away from the devious girls before they could pull out bows and makeup, preferring his company rather than the others. Of course Tweek loved being around this cousin, particularly out in the pastures watching the sheep graze, running through the corn fields, or riding out on a big black stallion together, him too twitchy and nervous to ride alone. Thomas represented family safety to him and everything he wanted to be, minus the frizzy auburn hair and ginger-kid looks, anyway.

Of course, he had to admit he was thrilled when he got back to his own house and neighborhood, even the obnoxious school work that claimed his life until he received a little certificate in the mail stating he had successful passed the fourth grade. To celebrate the momentous occasion Richard brewed up a special batch of hazelnut-banana-mocha coffee, a Tweak specialty that only was made if his son accomplished something absolutely astounding. And his parent's announced they'd be vacationing at Lake Jefferson and he could bring a friend, which was no doubt in his mind going to be Christophe.

The drive was two hours long, and they left at nine in the morning so they could stop for brunch before arriving. Christophe seemed a tad bit nervous being along with them for the first thirty minutes, until Eavan saved them both from her husband's taste in music by popping in Dane Cook's _Harmful if Swallowed_ CD. From then on out _he_ was the calm one, busting into strong laughter, so unlike his coy chuckles or uncharacteristic giggles that it was startling, even to the adults that had never heard him laugh before.

At a stop at a gas station, Richard at the back of the petit car pumping away gas, Eavan inside to grab some snacks for the children, Tweek bust into a fit of twitching as Dane's infamous "Tire in the Face" joke played over the sound system.

"Oh GOD! I can't, I can't be in a CAR after that! How are we going to get to the lake? Oh _Jesus_!"

Christophe smirked, shaking his head, lips quirking, corners of his eyes twitching in lack of nicotine. "You're name isn't Mary, you will not be 'it in ze face wiz a tire and die."

"Oh, okay. But how do you—"

"Because you'll die of overwhelming love, yes? Now, shush, I am listening to ze comedian."

Tweek didn't question it, assuring himself he'd probably receive the answer, "I know because I am French, euh." Of course he also left it alone, knowing questioning would lead to doubting himself, which would eventually turn into a hyperventilating, breakdown experience before being shipped back to Dr. Rizzo's office for analysis, which he didn't need on vacation. So he sat back and enjoyed the landscapes, head jerking to the side at random intervals, and fell into a slumber, having stayed up the entire night out of anxiety.

Instead of stopping for brunch before hand, like planned, the Tweaks drove straight through to Lake Jefferson and went about unpacking. Seeing that the boys had rooms of their own, they decided to rearrange, Tweek's bedroom used for both of them to sleep, Christophe's used as a playroom. They tested out the bunkbeds, unpacked clothing, and grabbed sandwiches for the road as they explored.

The exploration lasted several days, wandering into places they shouldn't be, circling the gigantic lake looking for things to get into or do, mapping out the situation. The lake was like any other lake, you could swim, watersky, waterjet, boat, or fish to your hearts content. North, jagged trails lead into a thick forest covering the slope of the Rocky's, the ice-aged glacier shimmering more west then the boys hoped to go. Southeast and farther down the mountains was Beaverton, the sister town of the rambunctious Fairplay, known for its party districts and clubs. But it set the balance in play; nice scenery, mellow, calm habitat with booze and strippers a few miles down.

The next journey out was searching for people that could be potential playmates, and others to avoid completely. Much to Tweek's astonishment, Porsche was there, dressed in jeans and a baggy Colorado State hoodie. Her hair was pulled up into a ponytail, face devoid of any blue makeup. When confronted she spoke normal English, explaining that every summer for the first month she stayed with her Dad and his girlfriend out at a cabin at Lake Jefferson, with her older sister. She seemed psyched to see people she knew and promised to hang out with them later. Christophe thought she was gutsy after trying to push him off of a dock due to some rude remark, and all the while suicidal; she went into the 'questionable' category of friends.

They split up around noon, Tweek hungry and wanting lunch, Christophe itching to find the little dillhole that dare splash The Mole. Kicking the packed sand of the higher bank of the lake he growled, staring out over the waters as if that irritable boy would appear.

"Hey! Hey! Excuse me, but cun you please stop?"

Christophe looked over his shoulder in annoyance and ground down on his cigarette, watching an older boy trudging over the sand toward him. He rolled his eyes and continued on his way; he didn't know the boy, he shouldn't stop.

"_Hey_!" This didn't phase The Mole as he kicked the sand harder and strode on a bit faster. That was, until the boy yelling caught up, grabbed his wrist and slid to a halt in front of him. "You complete wally! Did you not hear me?"

Snapping his wrist out of the boy's grip he took a step back, analyzing this person. He seemed to be in his teens, wearing a faded _Interpol_ shirt and khakis that only brightened the intensity of his flaming red curls and green eyes. His pale skin was freckled, giving him the title nothing short of "ginger kid".

"I 'eard you just fine, beetch. Now ef you'd get out of my way—"

The boy slid into his redirected path with a heavy sigh. "My, no wonder you're so unfriendly, you're a bloody frog."

"Can't say I'm so 'appy about Irish sunsvabeetches pretending to be Welsh," Christophe barked.

The ginger kid smirked. "Well, I do live in Wales, so no matter my appearance I would act like the Welsh do. And, as if it's any of your business anyway, my grandmother was Irish and Scottish, my grandfather English and Welsh, so they're children were everything. Of course they all married into different UK regions—father a nice Welsh woman—except Auntie Eavan."

"Auntie Eavan?"

The kid nodded. "Why yes, which brings me to my point! I've seen you hanging around with my cousin, could you tell me which cabin they're staying in, bychance?"

Watching the flouncing figure of Tweek behind the teen, slipping and sliding across the sand , tripping once over air, Christophe didn't have to answer. It was a funny sight, the blonde running, flailing about without a bit of balance whatsoever, but he couldn't laugh, Tweek was Tweek, gravity-hater and all.

"Thomas!" Tweek shouted, grinning like an idiot before launching himself at the redhead, to be pulled into a hug and spun around. He giggled uncharacteristically as his cousin set him on his hip, like a mother would with a three-year-old.

"You haven't lost weight, have you, Tweek? You're light to be nine!"

"Just eleven pounds under weight," Tweek said dejectedly as he slid out of Thomas' grasp and perked up again. "Jesus Christ, what're you doing here? I thought you were going back to Wales!"

"Oh we were, and then Mum said she wanted to stay at the O'Sullivan farm for a while, then went around and visited friends, before deciding she wanted to come out here for a week and visit. We'll be heading back to Wales in four days. Now what are you doing here?"

Jittering Tweek replied, "Well Mom and Dad thought it'd be nice to get away from town! So we vacationed. Here! And I brought my friend—" at this he grabbed Christophe's arm, pulling him toward him. "—Mole."

Cocking his head, Thomas put a hand on his slender hip in thought. "Mole? Bollocks! That's no true name, Tweek. So, what is your name, 'Mole'?"

Placing his hands behind his back, Christophe teetered on the toes of his boots, looking up under long lashes, a boyish smile crossing his lips. "Ura Deeck."

"Mole!" Tweek hissed, seeming appalled by his friend's answer, which confused Christophe; usually Tweek was a bit nervous over his generally bad-boy decisions and humour, but always went along with it, saying how he wished he was more like him. But the French boy could understand; Tweek wanted his cousin's approval and praise, no matter what it took. But it still hurt.

"Yes Twitch?"

"_Be nice_," Tweek growled, narrowing his honey eyes, sparkling in the afternoon sun, though this was for uncertainty and plee. Christophe could tell how afraid his friend was to voice the command, the way he shook and jittered erratically and coward in on himself. But he held firm, despite that. However, he was talking to Christophe DeLorne, the most stubborn kid in South Park.

"Bite me."

"_Christophe!_" Tweek shouted, taking a step back as if slapped by that refusal of acceptance.

"Why should I change my be'aviour because your cousin is 'ere? Why should I trot around to please 'im? If zis is 'ow 'e effects you, zen I don't like ze cock-sucker!"

"Then go home!"

He threw his hands up, narrowing his eyes and spat at the ground. "Does et look like I can drive? Get 'ome myself? Because if so I'd be glad to fucking leave!"

"Well it's not like you have a sense of direction anyway!" Tweek growled, balling his fist, hating the deadly look Christophe gave him. As his anger increased, peaked, a mutilated, faded version of Christophe overlapped him, the world in a double vision, one his and one he presumed to be what Curson would otherwise do. Biting his tongue to keep the Bat-King from saying anything nasty, a feral howl erupted in his mind.

"At least I don't cry when I walk by Stark's Pond! At least I don't write sheety poetry! At least I'm not crazy! _At least I don't deny loving my best friend_!"

Thomas watched in confusion as the two friends fled in opposite directions, Tweek toward the cabin in tears and sobbing, Christophe toward the slopes main trails cursing. Sighing he shook his head numbly.

"Oh bother."

---

Evening rolled around, casting the lake in a twin fire to the sky, water glistening as the breeze made crest. Tweek remained locked in his room, even as Christophe eventually wandered in, mud-caked and filthy, knowing that if he stayed out passed six he'd worry the Tweaks. He cleaned up, ate dinner, and watched the sun fall from the sky, replaced by a low hanging moon, curled on a window seat overlooking the expanse of water.

Richard left at six-thirty to his brother-in-law's cabin to have a "boys-night" with Harri and Thomas, watching a football game on TV and playing beer-pong. During which time Susan, Harri's wife invited herself over, laughing tediously about things her husband did and told funny stories about Thomas. Sipping her coffee, having just finished a bout of inane laughter, the blonde-haired woman looked around, crystal eyes gleaming in concern.

"Where's Iestyn? I haven't seen the poor lad yet."

Eavan crossed her legs, resting the mug on her knee as she smiled sadly in the dim lighting. "Up in his room, has been all afternoon. While I was finishing up cleaning dishes he ran in sobbing; I suspect it has something to do with Christophe, the dear."

"The dear?" Susan asked, a manicured hand flying over her coloured lips. "How cun he be a dear when he's distressed your boy so? And I thought that Iestyn was friends with that black-haired boy, why not invite him along?"

"A lot has happened since you last visited, Susan," she replied simply, sipping her white-mocha coffee. She saw the argument coming from a mile away.

"Perhaps so, but how is the little French boy any better of an influence? He's surly, has absolutely appalling manners, and reeks of tobacco! And considering the colour of his teeth, you know he has to be smoking," Susan said with a wrinkled nose, disgusted by the idea. Eavan hid her bemused smile behind her glass, brows creased in disagreement. If only the bratty woman knew what _her_ son was involved in, she would be dead by now out of stress.

"Christophe is perfectly acceptable for _American_ culture, luv," Eavan said with a fake smile, watching as the comment hit home. Susan huffed indignantly as if she wanted to say, "Damn right the English wouldn't act in such a way!" but restrained herself.

Instead she set her glass down and stood up, flattening her pants with those fake nails, giving Eavan a dirty look. "Well then, I'm going to go and talk to Iestyn, he surely needs some consolation at the moment since you obviously didn't bother with it."

She bit her tongue, hard, reminded entirely of the match with the arrogant nurse back in the fall. But this was her brother's wife and she had to smile and nod, despite the fact she wanted to claw out those fake-blue eyes and shoot the disgusting wretch in the face.

So she said as sweetly as possible, "Tweek just needs to sit and think about it, Susan."

"_Iestyn_ has had all day, and now it's time to talk," the woman said, emphasizing Tweek's middle name as if it was the proper name. "You can dolly in the matters of that French cobbler if you want."

As Susan turned and strutted, heel to toe in her stiletto pumps to the stairs Eavan growled a, "Bitch," at the insult aimed toward Christophe. Susan stopped and turned around with her brows raised, hands defiantly on her shapely hips.

"What was that, dear?"

"I said, 'best wishes'."

Rolling her eyes Susan waltzed upstairs, cooing as she went. Grimacing Eavan put her cup down and looked over to the huge bay-front window that overlooked the lake, smiling sadly as she spotted Christophe there, knees to his chin, jaw clenched shut, eyes hidden under messy bangs. That was Susan's way, she wasn't concerned if you were in the room, she'd still speak devilish things about you without a care. Despite his stony nature, with an adult insulting him left and right, Christophe couldn't help but be effected.

She sat down by his side and ran a hand through his soft, spiky hair. When first asked if her son could be borrowed for a month of the summer, Yvette had seemed delighted, expressing how much easier this would make planning. But as the boys left the room, she made Eavan promise not to let anything happen to her son, hating the thought of losing her son after the war scare. Of course Eavan had, and now felt a motherly tie to the boy, something she never had with Craig and the other boys.

"Christophe, I've got to apologize for Susan's behaviour, she just has this way of believing she's better than everyone else and it's her divine duty to tell everyone that."

He gave a slight nod, hands clasping each other harder than before, short fingernails biting into skin. "But she ez right. I'm a dirty little boy wiz no fazza or friends. My muzza 'ates my 'obbies and Gregory. I do nozing right or anyzing grand; I am a no good influence."

Eavan put an arm around the boy, pulling him to her side. This was uncharacteristic for Christophe, to be so pent-up and brooding, self-analyzing. It hit her that he never got a chance to do it before, Tweek was the one that always went to him for help, and The Mole felt that he shouldn't push his own problems onto the already stressed out blonde. She sighed and hugged him hard, sympathizing with him.

"Christophe, you're a brilliant boy with so much to give to the world, and the bravest person I've yet to meet. You're plenty talented and the sweetest thing ever, and damnit, you're not a bad influence."

He glanced upward at her harsh tone as she cursed before dropping his gaze, startled only. "Twitch doesn't zink so. 'e zinks I 'ave no sense of direction. 'e zinks I should go 'ome."

"Honey, know that if you want to go home, I won't hesitate to drive you back."

He shook his head and glared at his lap. "_Non, non, non_. I don't want to go 'ome, zen I will not see Twitch for a long time. But I cannot stay 'ere wiz 'im mad at me for a month, zat ez suicide. Et's all zat red'eaded boys fault."

The first name that came to mind was Kyle Broflovski, but that made no sense considering he was two hours south. Cocking her head she questioned, "Thomas? Is that who you mean?" Receiving a nod against her shoulder Eavan sighed. "Oh dear, what did Thomas do?"

"Twitch wanted me to change for 'im. 'e usually likes who I am, but 'e 'ated me zen. And et was 'is fault. All 'is fault," Christophe emphasized with a growl, crossing his arms across his knees.

Eavan sighed again, shaking out her frizzy hair. She could understand all three boys' positions, this wasn't the first time something like this had happened, after all. Except when Craig was in Christophe's shoes, he didn't get upset when yelled at, he went along with his business ignoring Tweek's embarrassment.

"Christophe, let me explain to you Tweek's relationship with his cousin. Tweek is, and will always be, drawn to socially independent people that take risks and are ruthless in front of crowds because he'll never be that way. Craig, Clyde, Token, Kyle, Thomas, you, you're all very open and comfortable with your surroundings, and Tweek likes to be around people like that to just have a taste of recklessness.

"In his eyes, though, Thomas is the epitome of reckless. He excels with his grades and hardly needs to strive or do his work to maintain, he's in musical theatre and even has his own band. If he sees something wrong with anything, he'll point it out without thinking, and Thomas hardly hesitates to argue with his teachers. If he doesn't like you, or thinks you're attractive, he'll let it be known without considering your feelings. That's just how he is. Even faced with a difficult decision of letting his parents know his sexual orientation, he didn't stutter or back down, instead he brought his partner home into the living room where his parents where and…well, let's just say the sofa was put to good use.

"Because of who Thomas is, Tweek thinks of him as the family role model. In third grade the children had to draw a picture of their hero and get in front of class to tell why this person was so special, and Tweek did Thomas when the others did their mothers, celebrities, or fictional characters. He's just that proud of his cousin that he would face ridicule of others.

"_That's_ why Tweek changes around Thomas. He wants to seem important and well mannered, he wants his cousin's attention, and would do anything for it, even risking one of his best friends' trust and friendship."

Christophe looked up at her, cocking his head so his right eye was covered in his rich brown hair, the other twinkling curiously. She could see he got the gist of the idea, yet found some small detail to speculate.

"So Twitch aspires to be gay?"

Brows arching Eavan forced herself to smile rather than laugh at what he chose to question. "Well, I wouldn't say that, rather, I think you missed the main point, luv."

Christophe shook his head as he stood up, turning to face Eavan, eyecontact manageable with her sitting. "_Non_, I got ze point, and I don't see 'ow et 'elps vairy much. But did you get mine?"

Placing her hands on his cheeks she smiled. "You don't want to change for a false likeness of Tweek when the motive behind it is an egotistical redheaded Englishboy that you'd rather slap, correct?"

Christophe grinned, flashing those yellowed teeth. "Are you giving me permission, Ms. Tweak?"

"If you can get a hit in, go for it."

The Mole giggled to himself and awkwardly hugged the adult as the clicking of stiletto heels echoed behind them. Looking over his shoulder he saw Susan standing at the bottom of the staircase with pursed lips, glaring and looking every bit disgusted.

"Well I never! What a stubborn, irritable, cheeky, _plonker_ that boy is! I swear, if Thomas ever talked to me that way—"

"Susan, I think it's time for you to go," Eavan interrupted with a lowered, menacing voice. Christophe shirked at her side, knowing that the other woman was bad, but understanding when riled Eavan was just as violent. He looked upward as her fingers entwined into his hair, shuddering at that smoldering look. "Christophe, why don't you go upstairs while I escort Susan back to her cabin?"

He just nodded before walking quickly around the blonde woman in a two-meter radius and tramped up the stairs. The few times he was permitted to stay at Gregory's, he would be sent upstairs by Ms. Freemont when the parents were fighting, and he knew Eavan was in that mood. On the second floor he walked into his room, forgetting it was shared with Tweek and stopped dead as he saw the blonde sitting on his bed, looking out the window.

"Twitch—"

"I don't want to talk to _you_."

Biting his lip Christophe nodded and climbed into his bed, ducking under the covers. "Okay," he said softly to himself as he buried farther under, as if the blankets would save him from Tweek's ignorance. He quickly learned it didn't when hours went by without sleep, and Tweek didn't move from his perched on the edge of his own bed.

Damn Thomas.

---

Despite the morning birds chirping, bright early morning sun on the lake, or happy children's laughter from outside, it was a dismal day. Tweek got up before Christophe, though it was no surprise knowing that the French boy had only gotten to sleep at six. He ate his breakfast in quiet and bathed before Christophe even stirred. When eleven rolled around the blonde was fed up with waiting and was on his way out the door when The Mole appeared at the bottom of the stairs like a phantom, rubbing at his eyes and yawning.

The first word that came to mind at the sight of Christophe in his jammies still half-asleep was _cute_. It was an odd contrast to the thoughts he'd had all night about strangling the boy in his sleep and cutting his throat (thanks to Curson). He'd hardly slept himself, but that was the normal routine for Tweek, instead he just lay in bed and fell into his subconscious, hunting down the Bat-King to demand analysis, stat. It wasn't a pretty argument they got into, rather it turned into a battle of wills, throwing around subconscious mass and weapons. At one point the annoyed not-demon pinned Tweek against the edge of Breakdown, irritated beyond reason at the new behaviour the blonde took on of "defending honour and talking back". To say the least, it was unpleasant.

"What time ez et?" Christophe finally asked, breaking the Tweak from his thoughts. Blinking, Tweek pointed to a clock on the wall with a jittering hand. "Sheet, et'z eleven-ten already? I slept too late, you should 'ave gotten me up."

"Maybe," he replied, glancing out the bay-front window. Was Christophe just too tired to remember they were fighting, ignoring it, or had he come to terms with himself? "Wanna come out with me?" he finally asked, drawing his gaze back to the brunette. The Mole cocked his head with an arched brow, giving him a look. Tweek flushed when he realized the double-meaning. "Jesus Christ! Not like that! Oh God, pervert! I meant…like outside. To _do_ something unsexual and fun. Wanna?"

Christophe looked down at himself with a smirk. "I 'ave some zings to do first. 'ow about we meet at ze docks at, say, noon?"

"Sounds good." He watched as Christophe took off his watch and threw it at him. Squealing, Tweek caught it and looked up in question.

"Zis way you cannot be late, okay?"

"'kay, see you then." Plans set he kissed him mom on the cheek and left, bouncing across the uneven ground with no real destination set. He couldn't swim without an adult around, go off into the woods without someone, or go into town alone. With a sigh he went to the only place that he could—Porsche's.

The cabin wasn't that far away, maybe a quarter mile from his own, though wasn't standard addition. As she said, her father was loaded like the Wiliams', so this mansion of a cabin was hardly a dent in his checking account. Though, wandering up the hill to the side where the black-haired girl was reading, the cabin still seemed impressive.

"Hi Porsche," he said shyly, sitting down in the grass beside her. She looked up with a wicked grin and dog-eared the place in her _Valley Girls_ book.

"Hiya sweety, what're you up to?"

"Nothing, waiting till twelve for Mole, wanna do something?"

Porsche stuck her tongue between her teeth in thought, fluffing her hair. "Yeah, sure! How 'bout we go to the lodge for ice cream? My treat." Without waiting for a reply she got up and trotted to the back, highpitched voice asking for twenty dollars to go get ice cream. She came back in under a minute, flashing off the pressed bill, and grabbed his wrist. "Come on, come on!"

Sighing he let her drag him down the hill, giggling in the direction of the lodge, sitting three hills over. She rambled on aimlessly about random subjects like butterflies and cloud-shapes, taking on the ditzy personality she usually had at Raisins. Not once did she let go of his wrist, he noticed as he tripped over a rock and went facefirst into the ground, rather she nearly pulled his arm out of the socket yanking him back into a stand before continuing her chatter. It only stopped once hey got to the counter in the lodge and ordered, a chocolate sundae for her, and a strawberry malt for him.

Sitting at a table in the back, looking over a flower garden that slopped down the hill, Porsche gave a slight giggle as she flushed pink and took a bite from her sundae. Tweek cocked his head, shirking in on himself at her behaviour, remembering why he didn't really like girls at that moment.

"It's good, how's your malt?" she asked, licking chocolate from her lips and tucked her hair behind her ears.

"Really good."

She gave a nod and took another bite, licking the spoon this time. It was strange, watching the habits of people. After every bite she'd look down at the ice cream, lick her lips, look out the window, and lick the spoon. He sipped on his malt, hiding his smile as the routine started again. "So whad'ya and Mole have planned later?"

He shrugged, propping an elbow on the tabletop and looked out the window as well at a young child running around with a ducky intertube around her waist. "I dunno, we're kinda fighting so maybe we'll talk."

"Yeah, like yesterday I saw him stomp off toward the woods behind my cabin and I was going to say something except he looked really _really_ pissed off and was talking Greek or something."

"French," Tweek corrected and let his head hit the table with a loud _thud_. "Yuouffh."

"Well why were you fighting?"

"Just stupid things and," he looked up, eyes widening before clamping shut as he squealed, "Oh _Jesus_! Thomas, when did you get here?"

The redheaded Brit grinned lazily from across the table next to a swooning Porsche. "About the time you made that disgustingly rude noise of yours. You never told me you had a girlfriend, who's the bird?"

Tweek bit his lip, at first expecting Porsche to make an appalled sound and slap Thomas at the casual insult, but then again she was a full-blooded American and wouldn't know anything remotely British except the accent she seemed to be salivating over.

"We're not a couple," the two nine-year-olds said in unison as they glared at the older boy for completely different reasons.

"Well my, when the lass denies it you must be horrible, Tweek!" Thomas laughed to himself as the blonde buried his face in his arms, embarrassed for no reason. "Well then, maybe I should give you lessons. Step one, talk with an accent."

"I don't want an accent," Tweek moaned. "It's bad enough Mom and Mole have one, I don't want one."

"Oh come now, Tweek, why not say 'Mum' like you did when you were a wee 'un?"

He ground his teeth as he sat up and shook his head rapidly. "No, no, no!"

Thomas smiled affectionately and reached across the table to tousle his hair. "That's alright then, I did come here for a reason anyway. Mum and Dad are taking me out on the town, want to come along?"

Flushing pink the first answer that fought to roll off his tongue was, "Hell yes!". However he bit his lip and looked down at his lap. "Well I, I'm waiting for Mole, we're gonna do stuff later."

"He cun come along, and so can your delightful little girlfriend," Thomas said glancing at Porsche, who was literally beginning to melt at the invitation before shaking her head.

"Nah, I'd love to but Daddy is taking my sister and me out later so I can't."

"And I promised Mole."

Thomas gave a nod, red curls bouncing as he stood up and stretched like a cat. "Alright then, we'll have to do it another time. It was a pleasure meeting you," he said to Porsche, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. "And I'll see you later, Tweek. Cheerio."

As his cousin began walking off, humming something under his breath, nimble fingers turning a straw between them, Tweek bit is lip hard. Christophe seemed a tad bit excited to do something, but Thomas seemed thrilled. Looking down at his watch he noted it was 11 36. Christophe wouldn't mind if he didn't show up, right? They _did_ have a whole month together, and Thomas would only be around for three more days.

"Hey Thomas, I…I change my mind. I'll go," he said, standing and giving Porsche a smile. "Thanks for the ice cream, we should hang out later."

"Yeah, have fun you two."

Tweek nodded exuberantly, running to his cousin's side and grinned upward at that smiling face as pink-painted fingers laced into his unruly hair.

Yeah, Christophe wouldn't mind. Right.

---

On the docks, feet kicking over the water, Christophe sighed over the joyous screams of kids swimming and motorboat engines revving. He thought giving Tweek his watch would insure the boy's timely arrival. Then again, after he thought about it, Tweek probably had no idea how to read clocks, except that had to be false having known the time that morning. He shook his head as he tried to analyze other istuations in which would make Tweek almost thirty minutes late.

Maybe he understood "the docks" as another set and was waiting somewhere else. Maybe he freaked out going near the water without someone with him and just went to the cabin instead. Maybe he thought noon was a different time then 12 00. Maybe he was having a blast with someone else and forgot him.

He shook his head as the breeze ruffled his hair back from his face—that was preposterous, Tweek wouldn't ditch him. Unless he was still mad and was humouring him this morning; maybe Tweek wanted to shoot him and bury him out in the woods for the scavengers.

Maybe he should just go back and have a second lunch.

With a heaved breath Christophe got up, scuffing his boot toe on the planks of the dock and turned back toward the beach, stopping as he saw the pale-skinned black-haired annoying Porsche run over the sloped ground toward him, short skirt flying around her thighs, giving anyone behind her a nice panty shot.

"Hey Mole!" she shouted, like he was going to turn back to the water and jump to his death, rather than talk to her. Grinding his teeth he pulled out a cigarette from his back pocket and lit it, ready to blow a good amount of smoke in her face.

She stopped a few feet short of him and bent over, catching her breath, which didn't take too long, much to the French boy's disappointment. "Hey, waiting for someone?"

"Twitch," he said casually, heaving every bit of smoke into her flushed face as his lungs would allow. She coughed, waving her arms to clear the air and frowned in distaste.

"Not as nice as blondie boy, are you? Heh. Well, hate to tell you but the sweety-pie left with that really hot redhead about an hour ago, out on the town you know." Christophe narrowed his eyes as Porsche flipped her hair back from her face and started again. "So since those guys are gone, I wanted to know if you'd be willing to join me going out as well with Daddy and Sissy. You know, since you're the hottest guy left."

He gave her an absolutely disgusted look before shoving her off of the docks into the water, screaming. With a rough curse he stalked off, footsteps echoing harshly.

"I'm going to tell Daddy on you!" Porsche shrieked from the water, splashing about.

"Fuck you!"

Ignoring her threats he fell into an all-out run, blindly dashing toward the forest where he'd discovered a creek that had eroded into the limestone and soil, hollowing out a den too broad for any animals but too small for adults. It was his and Tweek's hang-out zone, as they called it upon the discovery, but he imagined that a waste now. He fell to his knees, panting, moist soil sinking under his weight as he punched the ground, mud spraying upward, splattering his face and screamed.

Tweek wasn't his friend, he understood that now. Tweek was dependant on people to kep him sane, dependant for attention and praise, not noticing where his true loyalties lay. No wonder Craig had given up so easily. Sniffing back a bout of curses Christophe glanced behind him and spit on the forest floor.

Fuck it.

---

As the sun set red over the mountains, the adults went into a frenzied panic over the missing child. How was it possible to lose a cocky little French boy? Of course he wasn't lost, he just wasn't willing to be found, much to Tweek's utter depression. He once more locked himself in his room, ignoring anyone except the voice in his head, knowing this was his fault.

Thomas knew it wasn't, it was really _his_ fault. These were children he was playing his little game on, gullible children without a true understanding of common sense, still needing people to hold their hands crossing the street. There was no way they could even considering putting the pieces together of his trivial actions

The time he walked across the bank, stepping onto the cedar planks, the sun was long gone, cabin windows flaring alight, reflecting in the lake along with the stars and waxing moon, giving just enough light to see by. Each step he took his weight _thumped_ along the dock, creaking the wood over the sounds of the waving water. He took up position with his hands in his pockets leaning against a support post, a yard away from the nine-year-old. He seemed peaceful enough, a foot swinging over the water, the other knee drawn to his chest, blue eyes flashing and dancing in water little light there was. But the way he strummed his short fingernails violently across the wood, playing a rapid version of _Devil's Thrill_ really showed his mood.

"The adults are in a complete frenzy over your disappearance," Thomas said, breaking the silence as he stared down at Christophe. The French boy hardly skipped a beat in his strumming. "You should go back, y'know."

"Should, maybe so, but 'aving _just_ Monsieur and Madame Tweak worry ez not enough to provoke me."

He raised a brow, knowing this boy would be harder to get through than he thought. "Tweek is mental that you're gone. Bloody Hell, he's refused to talk to anyone and nearly fell out of a window because he thinks this is all his blame."

"I saw, and et ez 'is fault."

Thomas sighed, sliding down into a sitting position, imitating Christophe's pose, except his left foot stretched out behind The Mole, laying limping against the hollow of his back, right knee bent to his chest. "I suppose you could argue he had the decision to say 'no' to me and stay behind, but factoring in the fact he looks up to me, it was _my_ fault. Poor boy did decide not to come along, but I know how to work my words and attitude, I know how to ensnare, so he changed his mind. Look, I'm not trying to write off the blatant fact he pissed-off, I just don't want you to blame the lad."

He looked up, brows narrowing, giving Christophe a devilish look. "Why are you taking responsibility?"

"You already seem to loathe me as it is, when I go back to Wales, it really isn't going to bother me that a nine-year-old French boy stuck in the desolate waste of South Park hates me. If anything, me mates and I will get an utter kick out of it. But Tweek would be devastated to be hated, and honestly, it's my responsibility to be held accountable for anyway." He flashed a smile, main point across, now able to drive it home with humour. "And if I remember correctly, you said something about loving your best friend, so this—"

"We aren't best friends," he snapped, running hands through his messy hair. "Friends, maybe I'll give you zat, but we are not best friends, I was referring to a different matter." Christophe stood, stretching, cracking his knuckles as he leaned his weight on his left foot. "Maybe some of your gayness rubbed off on 'im, 'mm?"

Thomas laughed, sending visible shudders through the brunette as he got to his feet as well, that cat-like grin implanted on his face. "Ooooh, low shot to me, _and_ you're implying your mate is a camp. He isn't, is he?"

Christophe cocked his head, looking up at Thomas dumbly, with a smoker's smile curling his lips back. He looked so devious like that, the perfect image of a French Cheshire cat. He folded his hand in front of him, enhancing the innocent, devil's look.

"What do you zink?"

---

Brought back safely, but muddier than before, the adults were absolutely happy. Tweek, having watched the two approach from the window, was the first to meet them, by throwing himself uncharacteristically onto Christophe before he could even get inside. After many'a sputtered curses and apologies, they were ushered to take two _separate_ baths, and then sent off to bed, no questions asked.

The next two days were spent close together, goofing off all around the lake. Thomas held back, preferring the two friends in the company of each other than fighting for petty reasons. When he left Tweek was put downhearted for twenty minutes at most, before being smacked in the head with a shovel and provoked to chase his cheeky friend up the slopes.

It turned out, they found out the next day, Porsche _did_ tell her father that Christophe shoved her into the lake, and was demanded an apology. He did so graciously in the presence of the adult, being commended by the Tweaks for his actions, until the point he raised both middle fingers, cocked his head, and said between a shit-eating grin, "_Assieds-toi dessus et tourne_." The confused, appalled, stunned look Porsche gave was enough to make it worthwhile, despite the chewing-out he was given.

For four days the Tweaks traversed up the slopes to one of Colorado's many glaciers for skiing lessons. Both of the boys were naturals, Tweek catching on a lot quicker than the sputtering brunette, who couldn't seem to ski without falling flat on his face into the snow. But that didn't stop him, instead, gave him more vigour to conquer the sport, and he did by taking up snow boarding and beating Tweek every time to the bottom of the bunny-hill.

Back at the lake, boating was taken up, after his parents had convinced Tweek that he wouldn't drown or explode into a burning ball of fire. However once he was assured instant doom didn't await, they all spent hours upon hours on the water, Richard fishing up a storm, Eavan reading and sunbathing, the boys playing around, diving from the bow into the summer water. Of course, one could imagine that Richard hardly caught a thing with the boys splashing around, playing Marines and swimming the depths of the crystal lake.

The later into June it got, the warmer the climate became, and the more the two children sat around by the lake's shore, watching the sunlight dance across the surface. One such day, a week before having to leave, Tweek sighed as he stretched on the hot dock, a hand reaching over the edge to grab for the water, back exposed to the warm, comforting sun.

"Mole?" he asked, turning to look at the brunette in question, sitting to his left, feet kicking over the edge of the dock. Between his lips a cigarette was poised, damp from where they'd just swam. His pale French skin was now a healthy golden shade from the sun, drops of water sliding across it, shimmering. Throughout the trip Christophe had come to relax around him more, so much so he kept his shovel, his safeguard and security blanket, back in the room nearly untouched.

"Hmm?"

"I've had fun this month…with you and everything. I mean, Jesus Christ, sure the first few days were stressful and everything and I almost died a couple of times, but it was fun. A lot fun."

Blue eyes flashed as they met his and Christophe flashed a rare, close-lipped smile. "Et was fun, yes, I'm vairy glad you invited me along, I know zis ez more entertaining zen what Muzza 'ad planned."

He hid his smile in his arm, returning to look at the dazzling water sloshing against the support beams. The water matched Christophe's eyes amazingly, calm, collected, adventure loving and fun. One look at the French boy, wind ruffling his hair, pleased smile, posture, and you could tell he had been relaxed over the course of the vacation.

"Why do you know me so well, when I hardly know anything about you?"

Christophe gave a sigh, white smoke flowing from his mouth in the process. "We are friends, as you say, and friends know each ozer, yes? And you are vairy transparent, Twitch, at least to me you are. As for knowing me, zat ez 'ow I like et."

"You confuse me," he said, sitting up and running a hand through his hair as he tugged on the wet blonde locks. "That one thing you said has had me _spazzing_ out. I mean, I hate my ex-bestfriend, it's _impossible_ to love him, and in general it is! I mean, Christ! I don't want cooties or any other weird STD, nor to I want to have babies! I don't want to be different from everyone else, and after what he did, it's fucking crazy."

Looking bemused Christophe took a drag from his cancer-stick and blew smoke in his face. As Tweek coughed, choking, he merely chuckled. "Like me doing zat, 'e can't save you from yourself, so 'e ran. 'e doesn't like not being able to protect you, and 'e can't from ze doctors and medication. So 'e gave up. Why not talk to 'im, hmm?"

Tweek gave him a stupid look and slapped his hands on the dock for emphasis. "Because I hate him!"

"Deh-neye-all," Christophe said with a quirky grin before shoving him roughly in the chest, off balancing the blonde, sending him flipping into the water yelling. He surfaced, spitting and squabbling, flailing, before glaring up between plastered bangs at the smirking mug of The Mole.

"How would you know?"

"Et'z easy to see zings in ozers zat you 'old yourself."

Shaking his head he reached up, grabbing Christophe's hand for assistance in climbing back on the dock. Maybe he was right, or maybe he was crazy.

---

The week passed quickly in bouts of heavy play and soft chatter at night as they fought off sleep, learning new, interesting facts about each other. Tweek told of his affection toward cats, and how he desperately wanted one, but knew that if he owned one he'd be a bad owner, though not on purpose. He went on to explain how he'd name it Caramel, his favourite flavour of coffee, and how it'd have a bright pink collar that glowed in the dark with a tinker-bell so he'd never lose it. Caramel would be his baby and bestfriend, would sleep next to him at night and not get huffy over his differences. Caramel wouldn't care if he was strange, liked coffee, had some complex about the government out to kill him, flipped out over innocent things, or wasn't accepted into society, Caramel would love him for who he was. Christophe found it bittersweet, that all Tweek wanted had to be portrayed as a kitten.

The one thing that shocked Tweek about Christophe was that he had a sister. She was in France, he explained, for a better education, living with Yvette's sister. Marielle hadn't wanted to move, and being old enough to make her own decisions, decided she wanted to stay. She was more like a mother to him than a sister, he said almost sadly, because she was so much older. They got along, though, despite the age gap, when they talked on the phone or the rare times they saw each other. When he took out a photo Tweek had to hide his grin so he didn't get smacked; they looked almost identical. A younger Christophe scowled back from the photo, wrapped up in a late teen-aged girl's arms, hair a shade or two lighter, long and pulled up into a messy ponytail. Her eyes were that bright blue colour, seeming to pop with the makeup, a bit squinted under the furrowed brows, making her smiling expression mocking. Her outfit was what Christophe would typically be found in, a black sweater and faded jeans, though she wore jewelry all up her ears and a simple necklace. When Tweek finally did comment on their likeness, he received a glare and fist to the shoulder.

The day they left they were awoken bright and early, things straightened around the cabin the night before, along with getting packed. They left at eight, to stop for breakfast and fell into a silent drive home. Full and content the boys drifted off to sleep on each other, sharing a blanket despite the warm temperatures outside. Tweek didn't dream, didn't even realize he was asleep until a grumbling French boy shoved him into the window roughly. Startled, he was up instantly, only to be subjugated to The Mole's grinning face. The first thing he noticed was Christophe's lack of a seat belt, and then that the car wasn't in movement.

"Where are we?" he asked, rubbing his eyes and yawning. Looking out the window all he could see was blue sky dotted with wispy clouds.

"'ome, or at least mine," he replied, clicking the button on Tweek's seatbelt. "Your parents are talking to my muzza."

As Christophe slid out of the seat to the driveway, Tweek followed suit, slamming the car door behind him. At the noise the three adults turned, and Yvette smiled warmly, kneeling and extended her arms out to her son, looking tired. She was a good mother, in her own way, even if it took a month of him being absent for her to realize as much.

Awkwardly The Mole stepped into his mother's embrace, like he wasn't used to it, or perhaps embarrassed when other people were around. She ruffled his messy brown hair and kissed his cheeks, pushing him a step back with hands on his shoulders. "Did you 'ave fun, Christophe?"

"Yes _Maman_, I loved et."

"I 'ave missed you so, _mon fil_," Yvette said sweetly, kissing his forehead wetly, pulling him to her shoulder. She looked around him at Tweek and smiled, extending a manicured hand. "Come 'ere, Tweek, I 'ave not seen you in such a long time! Did you 'ave fun as well?"

He gave a brief nod, hands over his mouth as she hugged him, body trembling in time to his heart. "It was lots of fun, Madame DeLorne."

Smiling she stood, a hand entwined in her son's hair, ignoring Tweek as he backed up a step into his mother's legs. "I cannot zank you two enough for giving my son zis experience, Richard, Eavan. 'ow can I zank you?"

"You don't have to, we're just sorry you couldn't have joined us," Eavan said, squeezing Tweek's hand as it found hers. "We hope you did everything you needed to during the month."

"Oh yes, I did, zanks," Yvette said with a nod, looking down at Tweek lovingly as he stifled a yawn, vision blurring. "Well I don't want to keep you from ze comfort of your 'ome, et 'as been so long. Keep in touch.'

"We will," Eavan replied, kissing her cheeks and pulled Tweek toward the car. Buckled in and driving out, he cocked his head and yawned.

"Why did she sound so final?"

"What do you mean, tiger?" his dad asked, looking back at him through the rearview mirror.

"Her goodbye."

His parents exchanged glances, but didn't say a word.

---

A week and a half went by without word from Christophe, but Tweek didn't worry, Curson wouldn't allow it. Nor could he understand the Bat-King's "awakening", after having been quiet and nearly nonexistent during the vacation. But as soon as he got home and slept, he was dragged into his subconscious to the coy, grinning face of Curson, instigating, joking, accusing. To say the least he pulled a mental bow and shot the smirking demon in the eye, and was returned in kind with a claw in the arm. When he woke up, the skin was split and bleeding.

The Wednesday of that week, he went to see Dr. Rizzo with his mother. The appointment was the usual, questions about his vacation, friends, family, how he was feeling, his hallucinations, paranoia, anything that seemed to fit. He explained in detail about his suspicions of the growing bat population, and dying small rodents found around town. He then asked tentatively why the medicine worked at Lake Jefferson but not in town, to which Ethan explained it was all a location issue. At the lake he'd been relaxed, happy, enjoying himself without much worry so there was no need for the complex to really kick in. In South Park was the cause of stress, why he failed to get better, so the medicine actually had to struggle to work, especially after so long of being "off duty". Tweek didn't argue, it did make sense if you didn't factor in the Bat thingit living in his mind.

During the last ten minutes of the session, Dr. Rizzo analyzed Tweek's newest drawing, a picture of himself and Christophe holding hands with Thomas, out by the docks of Lake Jefferson, Craig, Token, and Clyde in the background playing around. He'd looked it over, placed his hands on the desk in a non-threatening manner, and said simply, "This s what you wanted it to be like." And he was right, Tweek really did want Christophe to get along with Thomas, he wanted his ex-friends there, he just wanted everyone to be happy together, without unresolved grudges and yelling matches. But he also knew that was never going to happen, which explained the background being night, the sky dark and untouched by stars or a moon. The two things Ethan didn't explain were the poppies growing out toward the scribbled forest, or the faint reflection of Curson in the lake's waters.

Now it was a Saturday, and Tweek was walking to Christophe's, enjoying the warm sun and the ability to wear shorts without the threat of frostbite. His parents were at the shoppe working, and had told him he could leave the house if he locked up and stayed out of the road, which was no problem for the paranoid blonde. At first he just planned to stay home and watch TV, until the air conditioner kicked on, the loud whir much like a lowkey growl of some demonic creature there to rip out his intestines.

He sighed, watching the clouds drift across the sky, wispy and watercolour looking. It was a beautiful day, a beach day, if there had been a coast anywhere around. Skipping passed the neighborhood sign, Tweek executed a little spin, just out of high spirits.

"_Better battles played, wrought with a weasel_," Curson whispered in his mind, seeming agitated at his intentions, and Tweek knew if he dived to the level the Bat-King occupied of his subconscious, he'd be sitting there, arms crossed, pouting slightly and looking as dissatisfied as ever.

"Hush," Tweek said, heaving a heavy breath and turned left onto Christophe's street. "Be nice."

"_Thirty-one days, silent, control not what owns you_."

Tweek rolled his eyes and yanked at his hair, as if that could somehow torment Curson, although it only caused his scalp to ache. Sticking his tongue out at nothing in particular he walked up the drive, knocking on the hard wood, rocking on his heels as he did. It only took a few moments for the door to slid open, a rush of cool air spilling over him as it did.

"Hey! Wait…you're not Mole."

Hazel eyes looked him over under blonde curls, returning to his face. Hands on his hips Gregory sighed. "Aren't you brilliant?"

Tweek looked passed him into the house, the pink walls and angel statues assuring him he was at the right house. Fluffing his hair in confusing he tilted his head to the side, biting his lip. "Where is he?"

The English boy leaned his hip against the doorframe, crossing his ankles as he did and gave a frustrated sigh as if not too pleased about talking to him. "Visiting family friends somewhere or another, but what concern does that have for you? Personally, I thought you were dead."

Tweek frowned at the harsh tone and rubbed his forearm, licking the sore spot he'd bit on his lip. Of course he'd been gone from school since he was home schooled, but he assumed Mr. Garrison told the class, or at least Butters. Or perhaps Gregory was humouring him.

"We're friends."

"Quite aware, you were the one that stole him away for a month after all," Gregory said nonchalantly, pursing his lips. "I'm sure you have some sort of ruffian thing to be accomplishing, why don't you run along now?"

"Gregory darling, close the door! Don't waste the DeLorne's air conditioning unless you want to pay their bills," Ms. Freemont yelled from inside somewhere, sounding exasperated by her son.

"Of course, Mother," he shouted back, giving Tweek one last look before closing the door in his face. Tweek grit his teeth, ignoring the threats Curson whispered to him, telling him a million ways to make a boy disappear.

With no other reason to be there, Tweek stomped off, curling and unfurling his fist, put-off by how easily Gregory grated his nerves, knowing it wasn't really Curson, having not wanting to be there anyway. He sighed, fluffing his hair in thought. Perhaps he was so used to the Bat thingit he was taking on parts of his personality, slowly altering into what he hated. But that couldn't possibly be true, since Curson wasn't a being, just a figment of his imagination…right?

"_Figmentation made flesh; to hope flusters denial._"

Tweek let out a sigh, centred himself, and took the descent down into his mind where consciousness met subconscious. He stood on a chasm, the acute feeling of falling by either stepping forward or back making him still, waiting as the coloured ribbons of substantial thought wrapped around the inky darkness, alerting him to Curson's own descent. It was hardly a moment before he stood at his side, arms crossed, giving him a sideways look as if he didn't anticipate the meeting. Tweek glanced to him, about to comment and balked, raising brows at the membranous wings folded neatly behind his shoulders.

"You don't have wings."

Curson gave him an amused look, solid crimson eyes squinting slightly under the accusation. "_So seems imagination takes flight._"

Tweek crossed his own arms, turning to face the Bat-King and looked upward, craning his neck to hold eye contact, and had to curse the height difference of a full grown adult to a child. "You said you weren't a demon so you can't have wings like that. Unless you were lying."

"_Testimony, not mine doing. Common belief may hold, but still the winds shall ride,_" he replied, the hard-edged purr of his voiced dimmed by amusement, silky-coated and velvet. Tweek rolled his eyes, feeling like he was arguing with another kid, though in reality he turned onto the main road of his neighborhood, wandering back to his own house.

"So for some reason my mind gave you those wings, but you've got others? What are you, like a bird? Flamingo?"

Curson stepped back, fluttering the membranous wings, ribbons of thought flowing around his body, the neon colour ebbing with a radiant light. The blonde took a step back, a foot slipping on the cliff's edge, pitching his balance off as he stumbled back, arms cartwheeling for support. A clawed hand grabbed the front of his shirt, holding him upright but still teetering on the edge, the pointed smirk making him still.

"_Insulting, flamingo! Soon shall you be witness, and flamingo will hardly be your worry. Down is but a violent toss, consciousness waits for confrontation._"

"Tweek?"

At the question he was thrown out of the descent, back so he ruled his body and not his mind. He blinked a bit at the dizzying sickness he felt at such a torrent, moaning a curse under his breath, a fist pushed into his stomach as if it'd fix the ache. That was perhaps one of the worst parts of having control over the Self and subconscious, having another with the same amount of ground, if not more, that could chose where you're Awareness was at any given time. And of course, being snapped out of the mind like that by something on the physical plain wasn't any better.

He rubbed his eyes, letting them focus and stopped dead. In front of him a yard or two away with wide eyes were Token, Clyde, and Craig on their bikes, dressed for the warm weather, though Craig still had his hair crammed under his winter hat. They stared in shock at each other before Clyde threw his bike down onto the grass of someone's yard and crossed the distance, throwing his arms around Tweek like they hadn't seen each other in years.

"Tweeky! Dude, where have you been? I mean we were told some things but—"

"Shut up, Clyde, let him breath!" Token interrupted, though his words did no good as he threw himself at Tweek as well, the three tumbling to the concrete in a heap. He sat up, rubbing his head with a moan, Clyde in his lap, laughing hysterically, Token laying out on the sidewalk grinning. He looked up at the unmoving Craig, his arms crossed, looking impassive and cold, expecting him to be pissed they were talking to him, rolling all over him. But he said nothing, did nothing, and Tweek knew that Craig hadn't told them.

Clyde smiled crookedly up at him from his lap, not bothering to move his hand from his crotch, where it'd fallen when they landed. "So dude, what happened? How have you been?"

He didn't answer, instead Tweek just continued to look up at Craig, shaking now. It'd been months since they'd seen or talked to each other, and this sudden appearance wasn't something he wanted. He still wasn't over what Craig had done, still wanted to just smash his fist into his friend's pretty little face and run screaming.

Token seemed to sense the tension as he looked between the two, brows furrowing. "Craig, aren't you going to say 'hi'? You haven't seen Tweek in forever, and he's your best friend."

Craig's hard look shifted to Token. "No, I don't talk to fucking lunatics," he said simply, voice as sweet and deadly as poisoned candies.

"I'm not crazy," Tweek said softly, tearing his gaze from Craig and looked at the ground, biting his lip. He wasn't ready for his, he never would be. He still wanted to strangle Craig, beg, plead forgiveness while slashing his throat a million times over. He still didn't understand why the Nommel boy made him this weak, made him want to bow his head and cry.

"That's why you're on the pills, that's why you're homeschooled, that's why you hang out with that crazy fucking French kid, right? Stop lying to yourself, you're as crazy as Charles Manson."

Tweek chewed on his lip, tasting the sweet copper of blood. "Why do you do this?" he asked weakly, looking up at Craig, vision blurring with tears, either from absolute rage or being miserable, he couldn't distinguish. "Why do you hate me?"

"Because you aren't Tweek."

Token stood up, shielding his view of Tweek with his small, lithe body. He eyes narrowed, hands on his hips as he stared down Craig. "What the Hell are you talking about, Craig? Do you not know your own best friend?"

The raven-haired boy flashed a glare at Token, still unmoving. "Don't be condescending."

"Don't be such a dickwad! What did you do?"

By then, Clyde was now standing alongside Token, looking confused and angry. They both knew they were missing something of the situation, they just couldn't figure out what went so deep with the two friends. "You were the last one to talk to Tweek before he left that day, what did you say?" Clyde asked harshly.

"Nothing."

Token's fist curled at his side, straining to be embedded in Craig's face. "Like Hell! You did something, you knew about it, you _pushed_ Tweek away when you knew he needed us the most. What'd it feel like, Craig, losing your best friend? What did you say that would create such tension?"

Craig grit his teeth at the accusations, hard stare never leaving Token. "I said nothing, I did nothing, nothing more than I had to."

"You ran," Clyde said before the Williams' boy could go off. "You ran because of what Cartman did, because you guys accidentally kissed. You couldn't handle it so you flipped out, I know you did. I saw the way you kept darting glances at Tweek that day like you couldn't understand the raging feelings toward it. You're low."

"Why are you questioning me? Why, how can you let him stay at your back like that? He's fucking crazy and will kill you both," Craig said evenly, narrowing his eyes further, the green blazing in hate. "I didn't do anything."

Token snapped at that. He grabbed Craig's collar, pulling him close to his face, startling both Tweek and Clyde at the outburst. Usually Token was the calm one of them, but this went against his usual behaviour, and it was frightening to see his knuckles go white with the strain of keeping Craig an inch off the ground. "_Don't fuck with me, Craig_. You've contradicted yourself more times than the President, and you've been deliberately lying to us since November about Tweek. _You're_ the pussy that called it off, not him, yet you've been accusing _him_ of abandoning _us_! You're the lowliest kind of person out there and deserve to fucking die alone and miserable with no one loving you or being your friend."

"Don't say that," Tweek said delicately, voice cracking as he got to his feet, studying the ground, though he knew all three of their shocked gazes were on him. "You're no better than him if you say that and mean it. Let him go, Toke, it's not worth it."

A disgruntled, huffing Token dropped Craig roughly, shoving him back a step and grabbed Tweek's wrist. He pursed his lips, not liking the fact he couldn't do more. Clyde let out a heaved breath, throwing an arm across Tweek's shoulders, the two sandwiching him as they glared coolly at Craig. The Nommel boy had the grace to shrug as he swung his bike around, peddling off in the opposite direction, muttering a string of profanities. Tweek watched, biting his lip hard enough to bleed, wishing that his friend had said something directly to _him_ instead of skirting around the issue.

"Hey Tweek, I think we need to talk. Come to Clyde's with us?"

The blonde just nodded, letting Token escort him to his bike and got on the pegs, having a moment to doubt and think _that's not Craig_ before the world spun with movement and he was dragged rather unceremoniously back into his subconscious.

---

Stupid piece of shit, dirty rotten _harlot_. Who did Token think he was, getting into his business? And to threaten him! The buttpipe didn't know a damn thing, sure he might have spun a few fables, but it was for their own good! Where was the appreciation?

And Tweek, he knew that even after all of those months, he still remembered those simple but harsh words, _I'm sorry, really, but fuck you, Tweek_. They still cut him deep, infuriated him, and Craig knew it. The fact of conversation, directness, how he stared at the ground, not willing to accept. He knew that Tweek didn't forgive…or forget, the broken look he'd had when those words had been uttered was just a dim replica of what he showed today. And that ensnarled Craig, made him angry, that what he said would do such things to his friend.

He hated himself for it, wanted to apologize, plead himself forgave, which grated on his temper even more. He didn't want to talk to a Tweek that couldn't distinguish reality from fantasy, didn't want a friend that was so far in himself he couldn't get out. And yet the blonde he still considered a friend that could get better and be cured, because he _needed_ it to happen.

Snarling Craig slammed the front door open to his house, just glad his Dad was at work and his Mom in the back yard tending to her garden. He kicked it closed, cringing at the scuff mark on the new paint but didn't really stop to think about it was he made his way to the stairs. The tittering giggles of his sister and her playmates stopped as soon as he entered, and now Tracie poked her head around the wall to the living room, grimacing at his coiled look.

"What the Hell is _your_ problem?" she asked, flicking her orange hair out of her face, a hand on her hip. Kizzee appeared at her right, green eyes narrowed under her frizzy hair, giving him a look that only said he was going to be castrated if he didn't choose his words wisely. Judith slid into view, head cocked, eyes widening as she saw him.

"Go back and play, Tracie, it doesn't concern you," he hissed, taking a step slowly, not taking his eyes off the three girls.

"When you fucking try to break the front door in, it _does_ concern me," she spat, clearing that wall and walked over to the stairs carefully, unnerved as his eyes followed her every movement. "Now what's your deal?"

"Leave. Me. Alone."

"Don't be such a bag of douche!"

It was done before he realized he'd moved, only until he stared at his sisters wide eyes filling with hate and brimming with tears, did the fact that she was sprawled on the floor, wrist at an awkward angle from landing tell him he'd pushed her, and some how lead to the unmoving hand. At that point breathing ceased and Judith had disappeared to find his mother, while Kizzee remained a boiling, cold rage.

"I fucking hate you," Tracie said between sobs, cradling her broken wrist. "You should die and go to Hell. _How could you_?"

"Bite me," he said between grit teeth, turning and running up the stairs before anyone could argue, or before he could hurt anyone more. He turned hard and kicked open his door, taking a choking breath as soon as one foot crossed the doorway, and fell face first, unconscious onto the carpet.

---

The three watched Terrence and Phillip reruns, eating snacks and laughing, making jokes to relieve the tension, though it remained hanging in the air every time Ms. Donovan walked in, asking if they needed any more refreshments. Into the second hour of staring unmercifully at the television, Clyde's mother chirped she was going to the story to pick up dinner and would be back in about half an hour. As soon as they heard the car pull out, the brunette licked his cheesy fingers and eyed Tweek, getting to the point immediately.

"The last day you were in school, what happened?"

Tweek shifted positions, drawing his knees to his chest, leaning his chin there. So Craig really hadn't told them. "Well you know about the…thing…that happened in class, and how we didn't talk to each other for the rest of the day. So I found a note in my locker, it was one of those _postit_ notes, bright green and it told me to meet me at Stark's Pond. I didn't think it was like, a rapist and stalker or anything because of the blocky Craig-like handwriting so I just went and waited. Then he showed up, and told me to tell him what I wanted to say early that morning, but I told him to go first so—"

"Wait, wait, wait," Token breathed, hands up for emphasis. "What _did_ you want to tell him?"

"I don't remember," Tweek lied, glancing to the floor before looking back to his friends, flinching.

"Go on."

"So he started saying how he was my friend and I was a cool person and everything and then he just said 'I can't be your friend anymore' and persisted I was on too many drugs and it was effecting him too and—arg!" He shook his head, burying his face into his legs. "So I left, and he left, and Mom put me in homeschool and that's what I've been doing."

"Why did your Mom put you in homeschool?"

"It wasn't really her decision, I mean it was, but the doctor supported it, didn't want any of the kids making fun of me or anything."

He heard Clyde sigh and lifted his head to look at the brunette, sitting in thought as he let that settle in his mind. "You know we tried to visit you, a ton of times, after Mr. Garrison told us you were being homeschooled. Every day before going to the bus stop for a week I went over, but no one was home, so I gave up. I didn't want to give up, but I just couldn't get through."

The blonde nodded slowly, clasping his hands around his knees. "Mom goes with Dad to the coffee shop to open and set up and is there for a half an hour or so before coming home. Usually I'd be at the bus stop so I wouldn't be alone, but I wasn't in school any more."

Token put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, giving him an encouraging look. "We went after school too a couple times, but no one was ever there."

"Dad was probably at the shoppe and me and Mum were at," he hesitated a second, cringing, knowing what their responses would be. "The Mole's."

Clyde raised a brow and shook his head with a silly grin as if saying 'only you would do that'. "Craig bitched for a while about being threatened by The Mole back during the war, it was actually pretty funny how flustered he seemed by it. So I guess the French guy isn't too bad if you're still in one piece, eh?"

Tweek smiled with a little laugh, mentally thanking Clyde for knowing how to cheer him up. "No, he's bad, he's really scary and punched me in the face a couple of times, but we get along well."

"You're really something Tweek," Token said, shaking his head in disbelief as well. "Especially to be sitting here with us after all these months, letting us explain ourselves. Christmas, we both went out of town like usual and told Craig to give you your gifts, but we assume he never did."

"And after the war we went to check up on you but we were told you were in the hospital. So we went when guest were allowed but you relapsed," Clyde said, exasperated as he ticked off the times they'd tried to get in touch on his fingers.

"Spring break came, we thought we'd talk to you then but you were out of town this time. So we decided summer would be perfect, even home schooled you had to have a summer break, but you were at Lake Jefferson," Token picked up with a little growl.

"We knew how much you hated phones so we didn't try to call you, and you were never online. So we gave up, knowing we'd _eventually_ see you one way or another."

"It's okay," Tweek replied, choking on his breath. So they really did care, they really did try to talk to him, just at inconvenient times. "I understand, but…what did Craig tell you?"

Token's look darkened as he crossed his arms, brooding at the mention of his name. "He said _you_ didn't want to be our friends anymore and deliberately kept yourself busy so we couldn't get in touch. He said you were different and just snapped on us, but he was lying the entire time."

Tweek bit his lip, tucking his feet under his butt, hands to his mouth as if that could save him from what he knew he had to get out there. "He didn't tell you that…that I'm crazy? That I was diagnosed with Schizophrenia and a bunch of other mental illnesses? He didn't tell you about the drugs?"

Clyde shook his head, amber eyes dancing with understanding. "No, but we thought maybe as much, that the 'doctor' you went to on Wednesday's was something special."

"But it didn't matter to us," Token assured, lifting his chin with a hand so they held eye contact. "We had a feeling Craig wasn't telling us something, but we didn't _know_ so we didn't push. But it wouldn't have mattered, you're still are friend, no matter if you go to therapist or not. Because you're still our spazzing, crazy haired paranoid buddy, Tweek."

Tweek grinned as he looked between them, the friends that didn't give up even after so much time had passed, that were willing to accept him no matter what. This was what he had been wanting, wishing he could have, and it was ironic he found it in the people he thought absolutely despised him.

"You guys are like, the best, but…you won't ditch Craig, will you?"

Token made a face as he asked, while Clyde frowned slightly. "Why are you so forgiving, Tweekers? After all he's done to you, to us, why should we be nice to him?"

Shaking his head Tweek just smiled, though it wasn't happy. He wasn't particularly in the mood to forgive after what he'd heard, but that was just who he was. "Don't be stupid, you two, you guys were going to hang out with him before you saw me. Don't let the fact that he's an incompetent buttpipe with issues ruin that."

"You're fucking amazing, Tweek."

"We read we ought to forgive our enemies, but we ignore we should forgive our friends," he said with a little nod, pressing the point. The two sighed in unison before grinning devilishly at each other and yelled:

"DOGPILE!"

---

When Craig came to, he ground his teeth, stifling a moan of pain as a dull throbbing pulsed in the back of his head. Was he knocked out? That wouldn't have surprised him, Kizzee could be the Devil when her friends were in trouble and needed help. But that couldn't possibly be the case as he opened his eyes and found himself surrounded in inky blackness. Was he in a closet, grave? Suddenly filled with panic he waved his arms around, finding nothing in his reach. Licking his lips he felt downward, to figure out what he was sitting on, to find that his hand kept going.

He bit back a scream. What the Hell was going on?

Or _was_ this Hell? Judith may have been Priest Maxi's daughter, but she was still extremely skills in occult magick for her age, and could do things that even adult wit'ches couldn't hope to accomplish. If that was the case, he'd have to wring her pretty little neck if he ever found his way out.

Soft footsteps, the gentle caress of moving wind on his face, blowing strands of black hair across his forehead set his senses blazing, alertness in tiptop shape. He strained to see anything through the incredible darkness but failed, only making his headache worse.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

"_Perh-erah-uhps_," a whispered purr answered, the dialect strange, echoing like a choir. It wasn't an accent, that much Craig could distinguish, it sounded more like a hundred people had split up a single word into something syllabus, with more breaks then the word should've had, yet it flowed incredibly well, causing him to shiver. "_Forsitan_."

Craig scooted forward a little on his butt, wondering exactly how he did considering the fact there was nothing solid under him. "I don't understand Greek."

"_Pro eu tu es plumbeus_," the voice whispered, mocking, twirling around him from all directions. "_I must apologize for you ignorance, but that was Latin, not Greek._"

Craig glanced around, trying to find the body that belonged to the voice. "Where am I?" he asked, ignoring his incapability of languages.

"_You must not listen to yourself very much if you cannot recognize your own mind_."

The voice still swirled, tickled, teased around him, spiraling to confuse his senses. This was his mind? So why was it so black, and void?

"_Those that do not dive into themselves, embrace the subconscious plane, never get the chance to customize and fiddle around with looks. Most that do embrace it aren't willing to change such an intimate part of themselves, and usually thick, breath taking darkness is included. For you, you were stripped form reality and drug in, but having not known what was happening you fell too far_."

The Nommel boy licked his lips, not liking the edge that voice had. "What does that mean, I fell too far?"

The voice cooed, "_Usually the subconscious and conscious meet at a chasm, and if you fall into that chasm that is unconsciousness, or 'falling from Awareness', you are rightfully fucked. The subconscious is comprised of different levels of that Awareness, the middle-most titled rightly as the Breakdown. The further you fall into your Self, the less likely it is that you'll find your way back, especially if you find yourself descending passed the Breakdown line. But there is a stopping point eventually_."

"What is that?" Craig asked, closing his eyes and letting his head fall onto his knees. It didn't make any sense to him, it was just about as clear as the Latin the voice had been speaking earlier.

"_The absolute core, your true Self. Going below the Breakdown point usually assures your madness from the start, but if you end up hurtling through the substance that is your Self, there is _no_ coming back_."

"Where am I?" he asked shakily, afraid to know the answer.

A silky coated laugh filled the air, wrapping around Craig's shivering body, but it wasn't very comforting. "_As previously mentioned, you fought and struggled the calm descent and broke free. It was quite unpleasant having to dive after you, I might mention, but we stopped a level below the Breakdown. Find up and you may notice that._"

Craig immediately craned his neck upward, seeing about twenty feet up a ring of vibrant light ebbing, but it did nothing to penetrate the darkness. "Why don't we go up?"

"_Oh, I've tried, but you refuse me_," the voice said harshly, the velvet he'd felt around his body becoming pinpricks. "_So I'll watch as you piece the puzzle and get out yourself._"

"But I don't know how!"

"_Then accept that I'm here to help for my own reasoning and let me in, trust me_."

Craig bit his lip, looking around. He could, and he felt like the mysterious voice could only tell the truth, or he could try to get out on his own. It was simple. "But I don't even know what you look like."

A sigh trickling across his skin. "_I've told you the greatest secrets a mind could hold, and yet you cannot figure out how to give substance to something. Pick a form, you ignorant dolt._"

Even though he knew he probably shouldn't spite the thing that was willing to help, he stuck his tongue out and flashed his middle finger at the darkness. Silky laughter to his left and he turned, his mouth gaping open, eyes widening to impossible lengths. Standing as calmly as anything he'd seen was a six-foot something, he couldn't distinguish what, only that it wasn't human. Its face resembled a bat, with a longer, lion-like snout, high sunken check bones, yellowed pointed teeth protruding from its lips, while long bat ears swiveled on its head. The thick neck connected to broad shoulders that could have belonged to a human, the upper body very much the same as a human male, just coated in slick fur and a somehow different at the rib cage and hips. The thighs were shorter, bulkier, and below the knees the strong legs turned into massive clawed feet. Resting on its thighs were four fingered hands, claws replacing the first jointed knuckle, the thumb at the base of the wrist instead of being opposable. Such placement and pose brought the eyes away from the membranous wings folded neatly behind it, or the thin tail snapping at the air, but instead to the well endowed set of genitalia between its legs.

Craig snapped his eyes away, meeting the impassive hollow crimson stare, balking at the pupiless eyes. "What…what are you?"

The thing looked down at itself, lips drawing back from ravenous looking teeth in a grimace. "_Could not have chosen a more attractive form, hm? No matter, this shall do quite fine._" The eyes settled back on him, stare intense. "_You have recreated me at one of my worst, the original form of one King of Hell._"

"Who..?"

Tittering laughter, much different then the silky smooth purr that had swirled around him before. "_I have many names, I am the Bat-King, the Twentieth Lord of Hell, one of the most trusted, and perhaps most dangerous, Aristocrats in all of the realm. I am several other things, unbelievable by this form. Importantly, however, I am hailed as Curson_."

He shivered at the name, wrapping arms around his body in an attempt to keep that chilling cold from seeping any further into his core. It was a known fact in South Park Hell and Heaven did exist, they'd seen the sovereigns several times, but weren't exactly familiar with the realms. Only Kenny actually knew what they looked like, but he didn't get a look into the government system holding the two realms in place.

"What do you want from me?" Craig finally asked, getting up, though nearly pitched forward at the unfamiliar sensation of standing on nothing.

"_It was your sibling that suggest you go to Hell, however that cannot possibly be accomplished so instead I found it fitting to bring a piece of Hell to you_."

Craig looked at Curson, shivering now. "So it was Tracie's fault."

"_No, it was not. This is purely my doing. You should be happy to have her for a sister, she didn't tell on you, and she won't. Her excuse was, and I quote, 'I just slipped on the first stair, Mom, it's not a big deal.' So you're quite free of punishment, if I do say so myself, from your parents at least_."

The boy stilled at the crooned threat and took a step backwards, but that just triggered Curson. He slapped Craig, digging claws into the flesh, only satisfied when the grating of claws on bone could be heard. The boy fell hard with a silent scream, hands going up to touch the wounds but yanked away realizing it was indeed true. The Bat-King smirked at the tattered skin, torn muscle, broken blood vessels and flecked bone. But what caught his attention most was Craig's left eye, the socket empty and severed, the actual orb laying across his ripped cheek, fluids thicker then blood seeping from it.

"_Don't fuck with my boy_," he hissed pleasantly, ignoring the screams and pleads of agony as he took a step forward and leaned over the curled body of Craig, kicking him in the hollow of the back with claws added to the force, so he arched his body, knees away from his face now. With a foot running red he rolled the boy's body over, stepping gingerly on his groin so he couldn't recoil and kneeled down, running his claws featherlight under his chin. "_I might be interested in you, but it doesn't mean I won't break your very existence and shatter your mind. There are plenty of ways to get rid of a person without pulling a weapon._"

"Pl—ple—please do—don't. I—I…_please_."

He smiled cruelly, letting his claws run delicately down Craig's bare chest to the sternum and slid his index-claw over to the right, passing across the indentation between the bottom-most rib and second. "_Don't what? If you remember what I said, I won't have to eliminate you. You will remember, won't you?_"

Craig nodded, snot running from his nose down his face. Curson's smile widened, seeming like the face of the Devil as he leaned over the boy mumbling, "_Mm, good_," against his lips as he kissed him and dug his claw through that soft spot of the ribs. He drew the claw under the rib and yanked his hand upward, the bone snapping with a sickening crack. He stood up, frowning slightly at Craig's unresponsive body. Hell, he'd gone too far.

With a heaved sigh he grabbed the boy's body around the waist and flung them upwards toward true Awareness.

---

A week passed, and Tweek happily hung out with his two friends, much to Eavan's delight. He'd first thought it'd be awkward as they filled each other in on their lives with humourous stories, but they never lost a beat. They did everything they did before being split up by schooling decisions, laughing at the same inside jokes, poking fun at the same people. He learned that Wendy had had a fling with Gregory before getting back together with Stan, Cartman gained roughly around seventeen pounds, Damien blew up a first grader and then several police cars when he'd been arrested, and a few more amusing bits of gossip.

During that week, no one heard from Craig. Tracie had called Clyde to let him know she had a broken wrist and Craig was refusing to come out of his room, but they didn't personally talk to him. It made Tweek wonder, especially considering the almost gleeful sensation that ranup his spine when he thought about it that could only be produced by Curson.

Now it was Sunday, and he had no plans with his friends, deciding a day off would be good for himself. He hummed happily as he bounded down the stairs, seeing more like his old self from back in November. His mother appeared around the corner, startling him.

"Oh my God, Mom, Jesus Christ, you're gonna give me a heart attack!"

She wagged a finger at him with a faint smile, showing that she had the cordless phone in her other hand. "Honey, you've got a call, and I really think you should take it."

He tilted his head as he jumped the last few stairs, hands nervously wringing each other. Who would call him that would make his mother look so distraught. He reached for the receiver and held it to his ear, watching his mother. "Hello?" No sound, no reply, it seemed that the other end was dead. Until a choked hiccup rang across the receiver, surprising him enough that he almost dropped the pone. But it wasn't the sudden noise that made him widen his eyes in worry, concern, and shock, it was the voice it belonged to.

"Twitch…I'm moving."

---

The airport in Denver was loud, boisterous, packed with people, but despite the body heat and warmth radiating down from the summer sun, it didn't eliminate the chilling cold that took wrap of Tweek, knotting his stomach. He stood by his parents in the waiting terminal, staring at his friend's feet, who was clasping his own mother's hand. This was the weakest he'd ever seen Christophe, hollow and lost looking, like he was a puppy that couldn't find his way home. It was a pretty correct analogy, considering.

Christophe was moving, it was as simple as that. Back to France, to live somewhere safer, where wars wouldn't start in their backyard. He was going to be with his aunt, his sister and her fiancé, his mother, he was going to be among his family where he deserved.

But Tweek hated it. When he got the call he'd forced his mother to take him over, and they stayed together for three full days. They talked, joked around, got into petty little fights and made up by punching each other in the arm as hard as they could, but they never mentioned the prospect of Christophe having to leave. Not until the day that they got into the car and drove to the airport, silent, distancing each other as far apart as the seat belts would allow, and emotionally. Even now they stood, not looking at each other.

"I'm..gonna miss you," Tweek finally choked, feeling like his throat had been squeezed shut by a phantom hand. "I'm really gonna miss you."

"Twitch," Christophe said, sighing as he drew his eyes from the ground. They weren't as dazzling, daring as they usually were, they didn't told that fighters look, instead the blue, the violet, seemed to dull to a grey. "I shall miss you as well."

"All of your smartass remarks and weirdly intelligent sayings, I'm really gonna—"

"Miss et, I know," Christophe finished for him with a faint smile. "And you're idiotic spazzing, ramblings about government conspiracies, I shall—"

"Miss it," Tweek said with a nod, smiling. They shared a look of complete understanding before Tweek threw himself at the French boy, wrapping his arms around him in a tight hug. "God, Mole, why do you have to go?"

"I just do."

"I don't want you to," he protested, looking upward with brimming eyes. Christophe flashed a rare close-lipped smile that said everything and nothing as he ruffling his hair.

"I know you don't, I don't want to go myself, but I 'ave to. Zere are many zings in life we don't want to do, but must."

"I know."

With a nod Christophe kissed each of his cheeks and placed is hands on his shoulders. "Good zen, you shall send me letters and one day I shall return to sweep you off your feet, yes?"

Tweek bit his lip as The Mole wiped his eyes gingerly with his thumbs. "Okay." At the assurance Christophe took a step back, looking up at Yvette expectedly, stilling as a harsh voice rang out over the people.

"Don't you _dare_ get on that plane without explaining yourself, Christophe! Did you really think you could leave the country without me knowing?"

Gregory ran up beside Tweek, brows furrowed, eyes looking haunted and positively enraged. He curled his fist as if expecting a fight as Christophe turned toward him with a sidelong look.

"'ow…'ow did you know?"

"Why _wouldn't_ I? Why wouldn't you tell me?"

The brunette looked at the floor, averting his gaze as long as possible as he bit his already chapped lips. "What do you expect me to say, Gregory?"

"Maybe why you didn't tell me?" the British voice said, strained like he was using all of his control not to go all out on Christophe. Looking to Gregory Tweek found that was all wrong; his voice wasn't choked from restraint, but rather from tears.

"Zis ez why," The Mole said finally, looking up with a hard, broken gaze. "Because I knew you would be so condescending. You would not just except zat I was leaving, you would make et bigger, and you would make et 'urt so vairy much."

"If you had just had the decency to tell me, I wouldn't be upset."

By then the adults had stopped chattering among themselves and were watching, Eavan's hand entwined in her son's hair. Yvette clenched her teeth at the interaction but said nothing.

"Silky trained liar," Christophe crooned, shaking his head as if it was amusing, and to him it was. "You know as well as I 'ow much truz zere ez to zat statement."

"Absolutely none?" Gregory asked meekly, sniffing. It was awkward seeing the diplomatic figure of South Park Elementary reduced to mild joking and tears, but he could understand on a completely personal level about having your best friend stripped away from you. He sighed, at least they were doing it gracefully.

"Zat ez true," Christophe said with a nod, stepping forward to sweep Gregory into his arms. Tweek looked away, up at the furious looking Yvette, but still, she said nothing, just stood there grinding her teeth, fist curling and unfurling with the effort not to drag her son away.

Gregory pulled away first, a slight flush creeping up his pale skin when he realized the adults were watching. "You'll be back, then?"

"Of course, I cannot 'ave an incompetent British sonuvabeetch ruining my business in America," Christophe replied with a grin. He took a step backwards, thought better of it and leaned forward, brushing his lips against Gregory's in an innocent kiss. The blonde's face flamed with colour as the French boy pulled back with a stern look, to have his wrist grabbed by his mother, dragging him out of arms length from Gregory.

"Don't forget, you eizer, Twitch. _Monsieur, Madame_ Tweak, zank you boz so much for hat you 'ave done for me."

"It was nothing," the two said in unison, smiling down at the boy.

"Come on, Christophe darling, we do not wish to miss our flight," Yvette said, dragging him off before he could argue. The two boys looked at each other, then to where their friend had been standing, knowing well that a chapter of their life just disappeared in flames.

---

Two months passed, setting September in a flare of orange and red, the warm weather dimmed, hinted with that cold of expecting winter. He was back into the homeschool program for fifth grade, and did his work like the obedient child would, but it was wrong without the prospect of being able to go to Christophe for playtime. Instead, when their schedules matched he'd hang out with Clyde and Token, doing everything they always had, but that couldn't replace the gap of not having his arrogant French friend around. And of course Craig continued to ignore his existence, but that didn't bother him, didn't break him.

It was a Wednesday evening, he'd been to Dr. Rizzo's like he always did, finished up his homework, ate a silent dinner, and locked himself in his room. He watched the scenery outside the window, despair taking hold. There was one thing left he'd yet to accomplish, that had been bothering him for the two months of silence in his head.

"You've hinted where I've gotta look, so let's hope this works," he muttered to himself, praying that the _Beatlejuice _influence somehow was connected to Hell. "Damien, Damien, Damien." He looked around and sighed, burying his face in his hands, having no other plan to get he Prince of Darkness to appear.

"Don't look so glum, I was pulled out of important business to dawdle in your affairs. Though, you having been the first to try that tactic, I'll stay for whatever it was you called me here for."

Tweek looked up, toward the doorway to see Damien leaning there, arms crossed, solid black eyes giving no misconceptions, looking like a miniature figure of Thanatos. He felt his spirits rise a little seeing him there, as ironic as that was. "I've gotta ask you something abut someone."

"Shoot."

"What do you know about someone named Curson, everything you know."

Damien looked upward thoughtfully, grimacing slightly at the cobwebs in the corners of the room. "The name doesn't ring a bell, and if it's connected to Hell in any way it would, be it from the depository of soul listings or staff. You've got me on who it is."

Tweek felt his spirits fall again, shattering as he looked down at his lap. Curson had told, had hinted he needed to get to Hell's roots and here was Satan's son, and his name wasn't listed in any of Hell's files. He bit back a curse as he shook his head in complete disbelief that the Bat-King would lie.

"_Webs of fabrication, spun not, said to the Prince, dialect intangible_."

Letting out a moan Tweek pinched the bridge of his nose, knowing two months of silence was too good to be true. He felt himself look up, his mouth move and his voice flow out, but he didn't control the actions.

"I meant _Cuh-ei-aih-ei-sauhn_," his voice said, butchering the language completely, but by the widened look Damien gave he knew it was successful, and had to thank Curson for once for aiding him in the unraveling of his puzzle.

"I'm amazed you'd know the Old Tongue, it's a long dead dialect, but it's a good thing you do," he said with a grim smile, pushing away from the wall and tucked his feet under his butt, sitting on the air as if it were solid. "As I suppose the English version is, Curson was in the first battle lines in the revolt against God. All of the first to attack were immediately banished from the Gates of Heaven, and didn't participate further in the Hundred Year Blood Wars.

"But that didn't stop them. Lucifer stood up and led the Fallen Ones, the Grigori, into his own dominion and set up the base of Hell. All of the Grigori's wings were cut off, and where the scars were Lucifer carved in designs of an angel's wings, differentiated depending on the particular angel's ranks. Curson was of the Order of Virtues and partly the Thrones before his fall, which was quite impressive, so it's no wonder that he became so feared and powerful in Hell."

Tweek took it in with stride, letting his mind comprehend what he'd been told. So that's what the wing comment meant when he called him a flamingo. "So what does he have to do with Hell?"

Damien shifted positions, cheek resting in his palm. "The first bout of angels that fell became the High Kings of Hell, and as you can imagine Curson was involved in this. Each were given choices of their legions, and Curson was given twenty-two to control. Combined with what powers he had as an angel, he was a formidable force and worked his way up easily in the government when it was developed, becoming one of the most trusted generals of Hell.

"To say it simply, he ruined it. During the beginning creations, Hell and Heaven were very gender friendly, and the creatures living there couldn't really be given a gender. So to make it easy Heaven were She's, Hell were He's, although that's changed drastically over the years when gender was chosen. Anywho, because of this inconvenience, homosexuality wasn't that big a deal in either of the Divine Realms. So Curson got gutsy one day and hit it off with my father, toying, wanting nothing more then a quick lay. Father became angry by such and banished him from Hell, to Earth where he has been since then, because Father knows how to hold a grudge.

"Curson got a bit arrogant and thought that if he was on Earth he might as well send all the souls to Hell as possible. So he struck with the Bubonic plague and wiped out a third of the known world, and has been tinkering around with diseased, plagues, 'natural disasters' since, although the Black plague was his most well known work among the Hellians."

Tweek bit his lip. The bats, the Plague, anthrax, his paranoia of the government—it all circled back to Curson.

"_Know you now the hands that snaps the whip_," his voice purred in his mind, content, satisfied at his findings.

"What ever happened to him?"

Damien shrugged as he stretched and slid off the air. "We don't know, at the beginning of the nineteenth century we lost him and haven't been able to track him down. No one really worried, we haven't seen any signs of him being around or fucking up important global affairs, so he can remain in hiding if he wants. Why?"

Tweek looked up, licking his lips. "He's in me."

_End Book One

* * *

_

**A/N:** First I'd like to stress a few things about lovely Cur-Cur. He has two main forms, his Hellian one which is how he appears for Craig, and his true one which is how he appears for Tweek. It's like how Satan is actually Lucifer, but Lucifer is portrayed as this damn sexy angel, but in Hell he's a flaming queer red demon thingy. Another thing is how he (Curson) speaks to the two. Craig understands proper English better, while Tweek can solve riddles without even thinking about what they really mean. Oh, the syllabus dialect added is fucked over in writing, but it sounds a lot cooler in person. You really have to get like twenty people to harmonize but Hogod, it's the shit.

And if you think the beginning wasn't necessary, well, it was. Later it'll all get linked together (:

Oh, yeah…sorry about being late with this. School, a wayward computer, life (shut up, I have my illusions) got in the way. I'll try to be a bit more timely next time x3;

Speaking off which, I've gotten questions on the number system. It's suppose to play out like the Bible would or something, with different books comprised in one, split into smaller chapters. Because, if you hadn't figured out by now, Curson's background story is modeled after Pursan in the _Lesser Keys of Solomon _and the _Ars Goetia_, except he happens to be a lot niftier :3


	6. 2 0 Redrum

2.0 **R**etribution **E**ndured **D**uring **R**ighteously **U**npleasant **M**oments

**ret·ri·bu·tion **_n._

1. Something justly desrved; recompense.  
**2. Something given or demanded in repayment, especially punishment.**  
3. _Theology._ Punishment or reward distributed in a future life based on the performance in this one.

A year has passed since that unfortunate…accident, and he's still angry at me, which is quite the accomplishment since it as his doing in the first place. I wasn't pulling the trigger that blasted my love's face off, cackling as the red mist stained new carpet and the white paintjob. I was the one trying to help, to stop the death from occurring.

Seems he's forgotten that little detail.

Sitting on the opposite side of the medical establishment glass in startling white, curled hair falling around the frowning face and disdainful eyes, it's obvious he knows I'm here. But I know _he_ isn't, and hasn't been in the twelve months he's been admitted into this mental health institution. Sadly the doctorates of the establishment aren't intelligent enough to know a broken soul, shattered mind when they see it, and feed pills to an empty, cluttered shell of a person that will never be civilized again.

Only I know the jigsaw he's turned his mind into by breaking through the three levels of subconscious. Each shattered piece, a memory fragment or data stored, mixed about in the gaping abyss like chips of precious gemstones. And lucky him, I'm the only one that can piece it together to make him the brilliantly cocky person he once was.

But that's the catch, when he won't let me brush against his mind, offer my help. He's not over the details of that two-year affair that turned so vile so quick, the dominance struggle and desperate fight with drugs. A relationship built on sex and attraction only, despite the want of love and compassion. Perhaps that's why he broke himself, threw it all away and knocked out the one reminder of those years.

Or he could have been genuinely crazy under that charm.

I raise a hand, tap on the glass; his eyes flick in my direction and focus on the spot of disruption before travelling upward to my face. Sick resignation pales his form as he raises his hands, palms toward me, hospital-addition uniform falling down his arms to show off the twisted white scars of long claws that had ripped through skin cleanly in anger. After a few seconds he lets his hands fall to his lap and mouths a string of disjointed words:

Redrum. Murder. Bats. Sex. Ecstasy. Blood.

I shake my head and rap my long claws on the glass, bringing his eyes back to focus. It's painful watching him slip in and out of a tattered awareness, only to choose to recall the most painful parts of those years.

I step back, drawing claws along the glass before my hand drops. He startles, hands clamped to his ears angrily at the sound only he can hear. He glares as I step back from the window before his hands fall uncertainly to the ground and his eyes shift back and forth, looking around for me anxiously as I step out of sight of the glass. Behind me I hear the sound of glass being pounded upon, and the insane command of a voice that's been useless for months.

"Redrum! Redrum eht dlihc! Redrum eht rotiart! Redrum eht evarg!"

As medical personelle file passed me, running to see what has their most dangerous solitary confinement patient in an uproar, I smile to myself and fade from view.

There's one other soul I've yet to disrupt, one other grave to attend to.

* * *

I'm not even going to try and describe my whereabouts over the months. 2.1 is done and will be up sometime this week, probably Wednesday. Sorry for keeping you guys waiting for book two, I know, I suck D: 


	7. 2 1 Tangled

2.1 Tangled Skein, Omitted Links

**tan·gled **_v._

1. To mix together or intertwine in a confused mass, snarl.  
2. To involve in hampering or awkward complications; entangle.  
3. To catch and hold in or as it in a net; entrap. 

It's a two-sided coin, the publicized relationship dangled out for those willing to snoop. A complete love/hate struggle and internal turmoil, shifting the sands of Time and Fate. But that is the key, that is what's oh-so wrong, for the personified varients should never be tampered with. One choice, one mind, interlocked by twisted fantasies.

---

The fifth grade flashed by in a blur, pictures accompanying strong memories. The whole year seemed nonexistant, a dizzying bout of colour and noises, only able to be identified by the reoccurring memories. It was a sick game his Self was playing in the chaos of being in control, and one that could not possibly be won.

A birthday party. Brightly coloured balloons, confetti showering the air, laughter and games. Gag gifts and real presents, delighted smiles, movies and burnt popcorn. Hide-and-go-seek, tag played in the streets with bust of shrilling laughter and yelling "safe, safe!". But no Craig.

Halloween night, mischief played as the sun set. Treats and sweets, grinning neighbors and children's foul. A vampire frolicking around, black curly hair now adorning a single white strip, playing tricks on younger kids and stealing his weight in candy. A werewolf growling and howling, stomping feet and slashing claws, flashing blue eyes, and a fight to the pretend death. A bat standing near, fake blood scattering the streets as the two friends fought. But no Craig.

Holiday tidings, windows decorated with flashing technicolour lights, one illuminating with a Menorah. Cheerful caroling at twilight, light falls of snow glittering through the night. Bitter winds, kitty-eared hats and town bells singing in the mountain air. A gift written in French, a call from an accented voice. Mocha-mint coffee by the fire as claymation Christmas specials dominated the television. But no Craig.

Spring birds chattering as flowers bloomed, alerting allergies to the attacks to come. Twin girls shrieking and dancing in frilly dresses, an artist scowling and hiding. A redhead bringing chills and thrills, sheep trotting in pastures, laughter and games through corn fields. But no Craig.

A heat wave drying up the earth, bringing scorching humidity to the mountain town. Swimming in an inside pool, a mother bringing snacks to a son and his friends. Rumours and tales, gossip and red cheeks, splashing in embarrassment turning to an all-out war. Camping under moonlight by a glistening pond, cicadas lulling young minds to a restful sleep. But no Craig.

Had he not have accepted the offer, had he have thought about the consequences the Bat King laid out, the year would be complete instead of fragmented bits and pieces.

When Damien had learned of Curson's whereabouts, he'd just tilted his head and spoke in that rattled, velvety syllabus language Tweek had heard in his mind on several occasions. Warmth and amusement had filled him before his mouth and body wasn't his own, and a purring, bemused voice answered in the same guttural language.

Then a sickening, lurching feeling of being torn in two happened as the body sank through the line of Earth and Hell, switching planes of existence, being remade in the Damned realm. It was awkward and uncomfortable, but not painful, the body was just _very_ aware of everything as organs were reconstructed, which led to the nauseous, sickening tipsy-turning sensation. It was over in seconds as his feet landed on marble, a shudder running through his body as the climate became intensely heated, but not enough to dehydrate a person.

Looking around, a person wouldn't believe they were in Hell. A large, Victorian styled manor house sat in the middle of the plot, gated by iron, as steep rocky cliffs domed around the house, and the Hall sitting in a valley of magma down the way. Marble led around a stone fountain spewing thinned blood, to stairs leading up to the huge oaken doors leading inside the house. The brink of night and evening, something a bit more muted and grey to be twilight, cast long, twisted shadows over stone and Hellian plants, beautiful in their own right but poisonous all the same.

Damien walked with a ground-eating stride to his left, a bit in front as if warding any of the demons off that had slithered out of the shadows to watch with beady, flaming eyes, bloodlust written across their faces. Tweek edged to the right, hands going up to grab the wrist of the body standing there, but was surprised. Looking up he saw crimson eyes staring down at him, blankness in the stony face he knew so well. Curson shook off his grip, wrapping clawed fingers around his hand and smiled, the pointed, carnivorous teeth drawing some sick sense of comfort. But his words floated back to him as they passed Hellians of all sizes and shapes, _Because Satan fears me_. Noticing how those demons backed off, catching sight of the much more human looking one, it must have been true, he figured as Damien led them inside the manor and shouted out orders, voice echoing in command.

"Where the fuck is Asodemy? Get him out here _now_!"

Feeling Curson tense at the mentioned name, he looked up, expecting to see some sort of emotion, but only found a slight frown, baring the tips of his pointed teeth.

"Who—"

"What is it you'd like, puppy?" a cultured, high-pitched voice asked from the grand stairs leading to the upper floors. Taking two at a time was a human, except not. Golden-brown swirling with mottled greys and muted orange told more of the race then the long membranous wings folded behind him, tail slashing the air, feet and hands that ended in sheathed claws, pointed fanning ears, solid gold eyes cut in half by vertically slit pupils, or short nose that curved upward to resemble a panther. The liquid, predatory way he moved, as if he had more bones then a normal human, also called this male out as a pure-blooded Hellian demon.

"I'd like you to use any sort of restraint possible, and call out my father, _Lord _Asmodeus," Damien hissed, emphasizing his title with a snarl. Asodemy bowed at the waist, eyes flicking to Curson and coiled, but didn't stop his stride until he was standing in front of Damien.

"My apologies Young Lord. You're father is in the Hall and wishes to speak there about this…inconvenience."

Damien's eyes flashed red for a second as he growled curses, pacing, the air around him crackling like static. "Fine, you'll escort our guest then." With a final curse he sunk into the ground, disappearing, Tweek knowing he was probably going back to Earth to cause chaos.

Asodemy's gaze traveled up and down Curson, eyes swirling as he placed hands on his hips, and finally looked at Tweek. The blonde stilled under the scrutiny, stepping closer to the Bat King as he shirked. Curson's gaze didn't bother him, he knew it too well to be unnerved, but this unknown demon, eyes holding the weight of ages and knowledge was too much, especially now when he was still reeling with the fact he was in Hell to begin with.

"So you have been reduced to being Damien's bitch-boy," Curson's smug, purring voice finally asked, splitting the silence. Tweek felt the demon's gaze lift and fall onto the bat thingit. "A High King of Hell with seventy-two legions under his control and the entire second circle of Hell. And yet, here you are bowing to the little prince. Have you lost all decency since I have been gone?"

"Hell has changed, grown, just like Earth has. I know when to fight—and I know when to serve."

By then a hostel tension had formed between them, crackling the air with restrained power. Neither moved as Tweek slid behind the Bat king, squeezing his hand hard enough to turn his knuckles white. "You were not made to serve, to be the puppy's nanny. You were made to command and have others serve you. I did not put you through the paces for hundreds of years for you to come out of it kissing the Hell-pup's ass."

Asodemy stepped forward, wings flaring to their full expanse behind him, sheathed claws sliding from the skin as bones shifted, tips glistening in what Tweek could only assume was poison. "So you expect me to kiss your ass, after all the years you've been safely hidden away. You expect everything to be how it was, is that correct? Well I'm afraid to inform you that I'm now at a higher position you ever were."

Tweek looked upward at Curson, wondering what he was going to do to that insult. He just cocked his head, a slow, arrogant smile spreading over his lips, Asodemy's gasping breath drawing Tweek's attention. The demon was floating a meter off the ground, face turning an unhealthy shade of purple as a phantom hand strangled him. "You might have the higher position, but do not fail to remember who Satan is frightened of, and _why_ he is."

"If you want to stay alive, I'd suggest letting Asodemy down, old son," a silky, cultured voice said, deep and commanding. Curson just snorted, lowering the demon until his feet touched the ground, but the phantom hand didn't leave. The blonde looked around the Bat King's leg, watching a goat-like thing walk down the stairs this time, normal looking hands on his hips. He looked human enough in body-structure, but the white skin, solid black eyes, pointed ears swiveling, feet that turned in delicate hooves, imp-like tail, and reptilian wings shimmering translucently told differently. But he was not Hellian Tweek could tell that much by the gentle glow that ebbed around him, he was something in between angel and demon.

"Well, well, well, it is good to see at least one of you still has his balls intact. You always were the more sensible one, Sammael."

Tweek shuddered, recognizing the name associated with the High King of Hell. Sammael was the fallen angel of death, not a true Hellian because he still worked as God's executioner, but not accepted into the circle of Heaven. He was the snake that had tempted Eve in the Garden of Eden, and was known to be his own entity.

With a flip of his wrist, Asodemy landed on the floor, hands on his knees as he gasped for breath. Sammael frowned as he spotted Tweek, but his gaze wasn't nearly as cutting as the other's had been—it was just deadlier. "More sensible, or the one you feared more?"

"Feared?" an amused snort, crossed between a laugh. "Do not forget I trained you just like I did Asodemy. I made you, and I could break you just as well."

A slow, sleepy smile crossed Sammael's face as he took a step forward, hand reaching out to Tweek, tendrils of blue unwrapping from around his hand. With a snarl Curson shifted his weight, putting himself in front of Sammael, eyes narrowed but no defensive stance taken. "You can't have him."

Tweek buried his face in Curson's pants, wanting it all to go away, wanting to be back in his room, under the safety of the sheets. Even with the protective edge in the Bat King's voice, it didn't make him feel any better about being in Hell.

"And neither can you," Sammael said carefully, taking the step back so he would ease down. "Want to be a good boy and walk without restraints to the Hall, or are you going to fight me for it?"

Curson shrugged as he turned, knelt and picked Tweek up. The blonde squeaked in surprise before clinging to the oddly warm body, and stuffed his face into the crook of his neck. A clawed hand held him on the hip as the other ran soothing circles across his back. Without waiting he stamped out the door, the two Hellians flanking him on either side.

His mind reeled. Curson was being nice, why? There had to be some alternative motive to his pleasantness. Or was it because they were on a different playing board he felt like it was his responsibility to keep the boy alive in the midst of Hell's teeth and claws? He wasn't sure, didn't really want to know, because he felt that if he did it would ruin this feeling of security. But what were they doing here, what was _he_ doing here? Surely it had to go against some sort of rules and protocol, right? And how were these three related, why did the other two stand down to Curson?

Seeming to read his mind, the bat thingit shifted his weight, the hand running circles falling to his side. "I am older then they are, I was in the first battle front on Purgatory's ground in the wars against God. Asodemy was a young pup in the first wave and siege, so I was given the task to train him as a general for a second wave if it ever happened. On the contrary, Sammy did not fight in the wars as he was a good little angel of plight, but happened to be kicked out of Heaven after a rather large mistake on his part.

"The warfare ended when it was quite obvious we were accomplishing nothing against those we had worked with before. But the two were intimidated by Lucifer's backbone as he began to sculpt the system of Hell, and came to me. Lucifer was at first hesitant to allow my small reign over them, but decided that it would take all of Hell to take me out. In short, the two puppies eavesdropping behind us and I were quite the force to be reckoned with."

Tweek glanced over Curson's shoulder, watching the two and shuddered, suddenly cold despite the pulsing heat ebbing from the domed cavern's walls. It was only then he noticed that the Lord of all things nasty had no wings like the other two, although in his subconscious he always did.

"You don't have wings," he squeaked, terribly insecure in his surroundings. A throaty chuckle and snort answered him.

"You heard Damien's tale of that, all of the Grigori's wings were cut off and carved into the shoulder blades. Your Self finds it more appealing that the Bat King would have wings like those he reigns over, though."

"Oh."

By then they'd reached the shadow of the Hall, a great black stone building carved into the cliffs, dominating the desolate valley like a Cathedral of death. Pointed towers reached out of sight, implike gargoyles mounted high above the grandeur doors, eyes of pestilence watching everything in sight, guarding. Around the arched doors were carvings of the same imps fornicating, dragging woman down to Death as disease spread over children. At the sight Tweek felt his stomach lurch and drew his eyes away, biting his lip hard enough to taste blood. This was the cruel, vicious Hell of stories he knew, each layer of devils representing _Dante's_ circles of Hell. Behind the doors would be the one that had implored Hell to be created, that had waged bloodshed upon the Creator.

Before Tweek could protest admittance into the building, the doors swung open, grating on the marble floors, iron of hinges squeaking their own protest to being used. Stagnant, static-filled air washed around him, skin tingling where it touched, and he knew he'd have to look eventually. But not until he _had_ to.

"Put him _down_!" a thunderous voice boomed, echoing throughout the vaulted ceilings, power laced in the words. The walls seemed to shake, backing up the command of the speaker. Tweek jumped and whipped toward the voice, spotting the huge form of Satan sitting in a throne made of yellowed bones, clawed hands grasping the arms hard enough to chip fragments off, bony knees crossed as the muscular legs tapered into delicate hooves. Golden eyes narrowed, a tick starting in the clenched jaw, pointed ears twitching occasionally. Even knowing this leader of Hell was a flaming homosexual, seeing him there among his glory, Tweek couldn't help but feel frightened, blood draining from his face at an incredible speed.

Curson just cocked his head, clawed hands tightening on the blonde. "Where are your manners? You were supposed to ask how well I have been in the Godforsaken realm of Eden."

Satan's eyes narrowed further, flicking to the two that had flanked him as they stepped away on either side, moving closer to the throne, but didn't hurry. "Don't forget your oath to me, Curson."

"It was broken when you evicted me from Hell, High Lord, you have no say over my life and actions."

"Yet here you are. Put him down."

"And if I refuse, High Lord?"

A glare, narrowed eyes—and finally a defeated, angry sigh. Satan pinched the bridge of his nose, smoothing out the wrinkles between his brows. "Jesus fucking H Christ, stop being such an incredulous stubborn _bitch_ and let the boy go. Do you really think I'm going to be a dick and kill him? He's a goddamned playmate of Damien, and I've met his mother on several occasions, and do _not_ want to face her wrath."

Curson snorted as he knelt down, gently but firmly unwrapping the shaking Tweek's arms from around his neck, fingers entwining in his messy hair, reminding him of his Mom's touch. Chocolate eyes drifted up to the Bat King, wondering why he felt so protected with the thing that had scared him shitless in more situations then one.

"You would rather deal with my wrath then his sweetness'? I thought after your little pigfucking Saddam died you got pissed, not turned into a pussy."

Huffing off the unpleasant reminder of his ex-lover, Satan steepled his fingers over his lips, feigning a bored look as Asodemy took up post on his left, Sammael remaining between the two. "You're here for a reason. What made you come out of hiding?"

"Personal reasons."

"Why dally in the affairs of a nine year old? What is so special about him?" Tweek's heart raced as he shirked from Curson's gaze as it fell on him for a split second before:

"Personal reasons."

"Yeah, you're a fucking homosexual pedophile. Like your boys submissive, don't you? Like it when they scream your name, huh?" Asodemy's tittering, sugar sweet voice asked, poison laced in the words with bitter hate. Startled by the accusation, the blonde looked over to the fuming Hellian, coiled in on himself, wings flared behind him as if waiting for a reason to attack.

"Still pissed off that I did not show you a good time before leaving, that you did not taste Hell's Whore?" Curson purred, amusement thick in his coated accent. A snarl of rage erupted before the aircurrents changed, wings flaring and lifting the demon from the marble, swinging low with unsheathed claws drawn in an offensive manner. Realizing Asodemy was aiming at him rather then the bat thingit, Tweek squealed in fright, frozen in his place. He shut his eyes, diving down into his Self, reasoning that shattering his sanity was a better death then being torn open. However, he didn't even reach the Breakdown point before something slammed him upward, back into Awareness.

And there was deafening silence in the woozy haze.

Eyes adjusting in slow stages he looked around, almost afraid of someone jumping out of a time-space continuim shouting, 'Haha, gotcha' and poking his eyes out. Shuddering at the thought he glanced around, noticing first the bemused Satan, then the lack of Asodemy.

"It seems the ring works just fine, I'd say that shows just how well your oath stands, hm?" the red beast of Hell asked, lips twitching in an attempt to keep from laughing. A low moan of agony drew Tweek's gaze to Curson, keeled over on his knees, forehead pressed firmly to the cold marble, spiked tail wrapped around his legs.

"You…cocklicking…_bastard_," he said, voice strained. Satan only laughed, relishing in the physical pain he could cause the Bat King without having to worry that he'd end up dying for it. And of course, it was gleeful revenge to what he'd caused Satan years ago.

"Maybe, but don't fail to forget how many lollipops you've licked," Satan said, reaching a clawed hand out toward the cringing Tweek. "Come here."

Without much choice, the blonde reluctantly slid toward the Devil, jittering increasing until his body was vibrating, breathing hitched to each convulsive twitch. Satan was a father, so he had to have some compassion to children, right? Comforted by his delusion, Tweek reached a shaking hand out, wrapping around Satan's index finger, a warm, tingling sensation sweeping through his body, instantly calming him into a content, euphoria-like state. He slid down to sit on one of the broad stairs leading up to the throne, legs like jelly as he purred.

"You've fucked with his mind, made him you, so why isn't he getting the pain aspect you are inclined to?" Satan asked, directing his curiosity to the groaning form of Curson. The bat thingit raised his head enough that the muffled words could be understood, but otherwise didn't move.

"Shielding him…"

"What is it about this boy you like so much?"

A laugh, cut off by a hissed breath and moan. "…personal reasons…"

Not wanting to argue further then that he turned his gaze down to the sedated Tweak boy, curled at his feet and humming a nursery rhyme under his breath. "Tweek, do you want Curson in you?"

It took a moment before the coffee-addict realized he was being addressed, so unused to the fluttering, calm feeling. He looked up at the beast with a lopsided smile, trying to gather his wits about him and shook his head. "No, he's—he's bad. He's tried to kill me, and he scares me, and he's mean, and I don't want him in me. I want to be me, not him, _me_!"

Satan didn't know what was worse, the babbling blonde that seemed almost drunk the way he slurred his words, or the mumbled curses between groans of pain from Curson. But this was why he had allowed himself to be found, to be stripped from the boy—the Devil just couldn't figure out the reason _why_.

"You can get rid of me…mentally, you can have your Self…but the consequences will be grave...and you will never escape me physically..."

Tweek squealed, looking up at Satan with wide eyes. "Oh my God, he's going to kill me in my mind if I keep him! But if I don't he's still going to kill me! Oh God, oh God, oh Jesus Christ, Mother Mary, and Joseph."

"He won't kill you," Satan said in a soft voice, patting the boy awkwardly on the head. "He's going to stay here in pain. You agree he's in pain?" A nod, and a pleased smile. "Then there's nothing to worry about."

Tweek considered the possibility of having his mind to himself, no nagging voice speaking riddles, no caged level of his psyche and mental attacks. Nothing that would prevent him from being a normal child again with friends and schoolwork. Beaming up at Satan he just nodded.

It had been a year ago since he'd woken up in his bed, feeling relaxed, free from mental strain and leashes. A slow descent into his Self would show no signs of the Fallen Angel, no trace of his warm, almost welcoming presence. And it was wonderful, having a life to himself again, knowing that he was the kid he had been before the Bat King took over. Dreams were uninhibited and sweet, paranoia was reigned to the Underpants Gnomes, gremlins and rabid dust bunnies under his bed, mirrors were just reflecting glass.

But he was nervous still as autumn approached, along with the sixth grade. Because now instead of being the "different" child he had been with drugs that effect the way he perceived things, he was now being enrolled into public school once more.

---

It was a decision Eavan strongly enforced upon the doctors at the Denver Psychological Association Centre. Without Christophe as a playmate, her son needed the social interactions with other kids. Even with Token and Clyde visiting after school hours, it wasn't enough socialism for a growing preteen, unless they wanted him to turn into a hermit. Having noticed his improvement over hallucinations, although now memory lapse was a problem, Dr. Rizzo had begrudgingly accepted the proposal to allow Tweek back into the public schooling system.

Sleep hadn't been an option. He'd sat up all night, making sure his backpack was chuck-full of supplies, considering the outfit he'd wear, thinking over how he'd greet the children he hadn't spoken to in almost two years. Would they accept him back among the throng, or would they push him away, believing he was still a clinically insane patient? His mind whirled with such thoughts, each minute ticking passed making him more nervous. By the time the alarm blared that the boy should be awake, his nerves were shot, stomach turning in on itself as adrenaline scored through his body.

"Oh _Jesus_!" Tweek shouted as he burst from the bed, tangled in the sheets and fell unceremoniously to the floor. In the mess the clock had gotten caught as well, tipping from the nightstand and slamming to the floor, the piece of technology cutting off instantly. "I don't wanna go, _I don't wanna go_!"

The door opened, a crack of light flooding into the room as Eavan poked her bed-tousled head into the doorway, a tired, lopsided smile passing her lips as she saw her son sprawled on the floor, fighting the sheets. "Good morning, luv, hurry up and go get a shower before breakfast is ready."

"Y—yes Mom," he squeaked, watching her disappear from sight with a sigh. It was now or never, and time was slowly fading out to when he'd have to leave for the bus. The prospect was displeasing, as his stomach reminded him by being washed with another wave of butterflies.

Untangling from the sheets he got up, kicking them toward the bed and tramped out of the room into the bathroom, grabbing a towel on the way. It took a good ten minutes to get the taps set at a temperature that didn't scald, and longer for him to feel comfortable that the tub wouldn't be cold when he stepped in. As the warm water washed over his body he sighed, content as all tension about the first day of sixth grade flowed down the drain along with coconut scented shampoo fizz.

How was he going to react to seeing Craig? Or better yet, how was _Craig_ going to react to seeing _him_? He hadn't forgotten that day during the summer, the hate-filled looks, bitter accusations that he wasn't himself. Going to school with him, how would Nommel be able to handle it? Would he admit to himself how wrong he had been, accept Tweek back into the circle of friends he'd grown up with? And would he be able to fight Craig in a battle of wits and sharp-tongues if he needed without Clyde and Token being put up against either of them?

He wasn't sure, the only thing he was sure about at that moment was the fact he smelled like an assortment of tropical fruits.

Getting out he hurriedly dried off, shivering at the cold as the steam dispersed. He towel-dried his hair, not caring about brushing it at the moment as he opened the door, peaking around the corners to make sure no news paper journalist were waiting with cameras and made a mad dash to his room, throwing on the light switch and kicked the door closed. Still he went around, looking under the bed, in the closet, in the vents before he walked to the dresser and dropped the towel.

Even though he'd had all night in thought of an outfit, Tweek still bumbled, wanting something impressive to draw people away from the curiosity of his being crazy. By the time he was satisfyingly dressed, the sun had crest the horizon, casting a muted grey, pastel look over the town. Even as it rose, time trickling away, he didn't move from his spot in front of the mirror making sure his primping hadn't been in vain.

Over the course of the year, his hair had grown out, adding enough weight so it didn't poke out in quite the disarray it had, but still remained to spike against efforts in the back. The sides curled inward to his face, framing the pale skin and clear, chocolate eyes with honey-blonde locks, giving him an innocent, almost angelic look, had it not have been for the muscle spasms around his left eye, or the dark circles that clearly gave away his lack of slumber.

The outfit wasn't fancy or over the top, it just held a certain air as if he'd _tried_ for something out of the norm. A long sleeved yellow, white, and brown striped shirt was thrown on first to keep the autumn wind's bite to a minimal, cuffs hiding his hands. Over it was a plain olive-green shirt with a coffee cup patched onto the sleeves, the buttons undone at the collar. The pants were typical boy-shorts, frayed just below the knees, showing off stickly, pale legs and vomit-coloured _Converse_ laced in rainbows.

Petting his hair down in an attempt to get the sides from fluffing, he sighed with a faint smile and trotted out of the room, flipping off the switch and shut the door with a loud _thud_. Tiptoeing to the stairs he checked each one with a bit of weight before taking any, in his old paranoid-Tweek accustomed self. He turned to the lighted kitchen, hunger quickly dying as that nervous, anxiety feeling coursed through his veins, tightening his stomach into a hard knot.

"Morning luv, hungry?" Eaven asked as she busied herself with buttering toast, humming an Irish folk song, under her breath, sipping coffee as she did. He shook his head vigourously, clacking his knuckles together like Butters usually did.

"N—nah. Can I just have coffee?" he asked a bit uncertain, looking up to his mother, Eavan waved the hand not holding the knife toward the kitchen table, decorated with a flower centre piece, and holding a smiley-face mug, steaming with the smell of white-chocolate caffeine. He waddled over to it, plopping down in a chair and reached for the warm cup, sighing contently as he took a sip.

"Nervous are you?" his mother asked as she sat down at the table as well, nibbling a piece of plain toast with a brow raised in inquisition. Tweek just nodded vigourously, looking down into the depths of his coffee mug, reflecting the doubt in his eyes. "Well don't be, I'm sure the kids will be quite pleased to see you around again."

He smiled, amused at how his mother caught on just as to why he was doubting the public schooling system. The only other person that had ever been able to predict his moods was Craig. He sighed, downing the rest of his drink with a grunt and stretched, ready to face six hours of inquisition.

He went to the door, kissed his mother goodbye, grabbed his bag and walked out into the autumn morning chill. At that moment he hated Christophe for leaving him to his own devices, without the cunning, down-to-earth beliefs of the irritable French boy. Although it was pure loneliness and longing that sparked this hate, knowing that Christophe had adapted to his environment and was doing well, when Tweek obviously was not.

He hummed the _Mission Impossible_ theme under his breath, looking around the desolate streets, wishing a dog or cat would walk out from behind a house to give the neighborhood a more human feel. Or perhaps the irony was just that.

Stepping around the corner of the block, destination the stop sign on Paradise Boulevard and Caramel Lane going north-south where the bus stop was located, he stopped his humming. Already there were the only two kids that ever showed up, Butters and Conner, the latter leaning up against the sign, gabbering his redhead off. His hair was shorter then when Tweek had last seen it, spiked up in the front to show off his pale, freckled forehead. The shirt was bright blue, featuring _OK Go_, pants green cargo, frayed ends nearly covering all of the black _DCs_. A silver chain caught the morning sun, sparkling from the front of his belt to his back pocket, where Tweek assumed was a wallet.

The other was missing his trademark turquoise jacket, assumable with so many stains he couldn't go out of the house with it on. Instead he wore a deep green long-sleeved shirt with a unicorn and rainbow done on the front, brown pants, and bright aqua shoes. His hair wasn't as shockingly blonde, paler, and a tad longer, though it still stuck up in all the right places to give him the poofball appearance. His knuckles clacked together, loud in the thin mountain air before a giggle escaped him at something the redhead had said.

"Hey guys," he squeaked as they turned to him, eyes wide with surprise. Conner's grey eyes looked him up and down as a wide grin plastered to his face, showing off _Crest_ bleached teeth.

"Holy fuck! Tweek, whoa dude, we thought you moved to Canada or something! God do you look molesterable, I mean the hair, and you're tall!" Conner took a breath, calming himself as he reverted to his sly, cocky self. "If you were a chick, I'd bone you right here and now."

"Oh Jesus!" Tweek said, throwing his hands up in front of his face as a slight tremour went through his body, but behind his hands he smiled. Sure, the sexual connotation wasn't something he enjoyed, but it was a compliment nonetheless.

"Hey, that's not nice," Butters said, shoving Conner playfully. "An' Dad said I can't watch that stuff without getting grounded."

Conner shoved the blonde back, into the stop sign and stepped up to him, close enough that their bodies touched. Tweek grinned, noticing that the Stotch boy had hardly grown, while Conner towered over him by nearly a foot, give or take.

"Always do what your Daddy says? So, if I fucked you against this stop sign, he'd ground you? Hm, choices choices."

Butters' eyes widened as he clacked his knuckles and laughed nervously, flicking his gaze between Conner and the other blonde. "Wh—what? No, I mean yes he would! But no you wouldn't…would you? I mean…Tweek, help me!"

The Tweak boy grinned at the flustered, embarrassed, horrified Butters that was turning a steady shade of pink the closer Conner's face inched to his own. Deciding he'd better help, he laced his index and middle fingers into the back loop of the redhead's pants and pulled, offsetting his balance and yanking him away from a near-hyperventilated Leopald. Conner scowled as he picked up his bag, spotting the mustard-yellow bus as it approached at speeds above average.

"You always ruin my fun, Tweeky," the redhead said, flashing him an indescribable look as the bus screeched to a halt, doors flying open to reveal a rotund Mexican. "Hey Mr. Alveraz, what's up homie?"

"Qui?"

Butters just nodded his acknowledgement to the busdriver as he got on after Conner, shuffling down the aisle to sit by Dougie. As Tweek climbed on, unsure and withdrawn into himself, he offered the driver a smile and looked around as tense silence followed his appearance, all eyes on him. He glanced around at the kids he'd known all his life, sitting where they always sat, most of the girls with fashionable new hairstyles and outfits, the boys just as messy in style, granted several normally included hats were gone.

The first voice to squeak something out was Bebe who turned around from her seat by Wendy and glared at Conner. "Hey you asshat, you said he moved to Canada!"

"Whoa, whoa, chicky-poo, calm your ass down, I was mistaken, 'kay?" the redhead said, holding his hands out in defense as Van Gelder hid at his shoulder, not wanting to face the wrath of the crazy blonde girl. As Bebe rolled her eyes and flipped him the bird, the bus erupted in questioning voices, wanting to know what happened, where he'd been, if Conner was indeed an asshat or not. Tweek just ignored them the best he could, moving along the aisle to where he knew he was expected to sit, if he was allowed. Eventually the questions faded out until people were just talking amongst themselves about Tweek's revival, accepting he wasn't about to tell them.

"Hey Tweek," Clyde said from his seat in the back by the window, nodding his head as his eyes lit up in happiness upon seeing the blonde. Clyde had changed over the years, thinning out as he lost some baby fat, but still remained a bit heavier then average. His hair was shaggy, curling a bit at the ends, and otherwise sticking out in the back. He sported a "Go Cows!" shirt under a black jacket, being the die-hard fan he was, and even his _Converse_ were school-spirited.

"Good to see you, buddy," Token said from beside him, feet that had been propped up on the seat next to him falling with a loud _thunk_. His hair had been trimmed as the curls loosened slightly, just enough to give off a _Holister_ air about him as he flashed bright white teeth in a smile. His polo was deep purple from _American Eagle_ by the logo printed on the breast pocket, the undershirt white, pants faded and distressed in all the right places, although at a glance you knew they'd been bought that way. Tweek smiled at his friend, knowing well Cartman was blacker then Token ever would be.

"Ye—yeah, good to see you two as well," he said, voice shaking as he looked to the inevitable, where he usually sat with Craig. The Nommel boy was looking out the window, hat missing, showing off his long black hair tinged brown as it lightened with age that curled around his face, the back short but still long enough to have that distinctive curl. His black shirt featured a rabbit skull on the sleeves and the word "D.I.E" in pointed white lettering on the front. Around his wrist were multiple bracelets; a miniature handcuff set, leather bondage bands, random jelly bracelets. A studded belt kept his pants secured, the buckle a three-of-a-kind in aces, pants grey and worn. His green eyes flicked to Tweek, looking bored as he turned fully to face the blonde.

"No 'hello Craigers' for me?" he asked, voice just as bland but deeper from when Tweek had heard it last.

"I—you—I mean, you hate me," he whimpered, looking to Clyde and Token for support, that seemed about ready to smack Craig if necessary.

Craig raised a brow, his expression calculating and thoughtful as he analyzed that response, and finally just shrugged, crossing his arms and leaned back against the window. "Who else do you have?"

Tweek startled, stilling at the question, the same question he'd asked Christophe so long ago when he decided to make all wrongs right. Was Craig trying to do the same, smooth out their differences and just live like friends, like they use to? He would have said 'yes' if it hadn't been for something that crossed that sleepy, lazy expression, but then it was true; who _did_ he have?

Resigned to defeat he plopped down next to Craig, the tension that had been on the bus before instantly snapping as the other students resumed their conversations. He scooted to the far edge of the leather seat, until he was half hanging off, but not sitting in the aisle, and looked down at his lap, anywhere but Craig. Since he'd seen Craig that summer day, he'd been carefully plotting out what he would say, do, when he saw his ex-bestfriend again. All his ideas, plans, he couldn't remember.

"Talk to me, Tweekster, we have ten minutes before we get to school, and I'll be damned if I sit here quietly," Craig's purring coy voice said, deeper then when he'd last heard it. The blonde bit his lip and turned to face his friend, looking oh-so comfortable and businesslike in his strategic slouch. "So, how's everything been? Where's your buttbuddy, the French piece of shit?"

That was a low shot. Tweek's brows furrowed, eyes squinting together at the jab, the urge to draw back a fist and slam it into that pretty smirking face almost irresistible. Instead he just leaned forward slightly, a faint smiling crossing his lips. "Around. Where's Stripe been? I heard he had some trouble with the exercise wheel."

His green eyes turned a shade lighter, burning with intensity as he narrowed them, a snarl carved on his lips, a finger pointed in his face. "Don't you fucking bring Stripe into this, you cocksucking sonuvabitch."

Tweek slapped Craig's finger out of his face, clicking his tongue in distaste, offsetting the Nommel boy's anger. He fell back onto the window, arms crossed, huffing. Trying to divert their anger, Token cleared his throat and laughed nervously.

"So, what's up with The Mole? Still talk to him at all?"

Giving Craig one last look, the blonde turned to his other two friends and nodded with a small smile. "Yeah, we talk. On the phone every now and then, but that can be expensive, and we send letters with gifts!" His smile widened as he remembered the last gift Christophe had sent, a desert coffee cup filled with caramel candies, with little orange cats painted around the outside, dancing and singing _miou miou miou._ "Usually we just email each other, but that can take time 'cause he has to go to his sisters to use the computer."

"I bet you guys are just fuckbuddies and cyber all the time," Craig's cocky voice echoed from behind, mocking. Tweek bit his tongue to keep from saying something nasty at that comment. He only knew what 'cybering' was due to a heated argument with Gregory, who he spoke to for the perks of what he heard from Christophe. Grunting he turned to face his ex-bestfriend, brows furrowed in disdain.

"What the fuck is your problem, Craig, why to you keep bringing up that topic? From what I hear, someone so eager to talk about being gay is himself. Have something to tell us?"

His eyes flashed uncertainty before the mental wall was rebuilt, and Craig snarled a stream of profanities. Before the blonde knew what happened, he was on the sticky floor, back of his head aching from hitting the metal under Token and Clyde's seat. He let out a moan as he rubbed his head, and looked up at Craig, hovering over him with a frown, seeming confused as to how Tweek got onto the floor, but by the sick resignation in his eyes, it was fairly obvious the Nommel child had shoved him. But what Tweek couldn't understand was the self-loathing, hateful look Craig wore mixed with a hollow loneliness.

"What the fuck, Craig?" Clyde asked, leaning over Token to shove the flipper back away from hovering, and offered a hand, but at that angle it would have been painful to try and take it. So Tweek just sat up on his own and scooted as far away from Craig as possible, leaning against Token's thigh slightly.

"I didn't—I mean I'm—" he stuttered as he fell into the window, ringing his hands nervously, green eyes darting for an escape before they narrowed, and Craig reverted back to himself. "Well, that's what he fucking gets for calling me gay, asshats."

"Yeah, and if everyone that you ever called gay shoved you on the ground, well, you'd never be standing," Token quipped as the bus pulled to a rough halt, slamming the unprepared kids into the seats in front of them. Tweek, on the other hand, landed a few feet away on his back in the aisle, looking up at the arched ceiling as the students moaned in unison. Sitting up he took Clyde's offered hand this time, being pulled to a stand as he grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder, his other hand running through his golden hair. He ignored the private conversations going on around him as he made his way off the bus with his friends in tow, and looked up to the amber, shoddy paint job of the elementary school.

"It would look cleaner if some of the paint wasn't peeling," he muttered to himself as a group of second graders passed by, giggling to themselves in a helpless manner, making him wonder if he was like that back then.

"Yeah, well they pressure washed it, and didn't take into account paint usually gets blasted off when pressure washed," Clyde's sarcastic tone said from behind him as a warning before an arm was thrown across his shoulders, leading him toward the double doors opening inside the building. Token trotted up next to them, hands in his pockets as he surveyed the younger classmen with a proud sort of smile, and then it was Craig's turn to slide up, sneering as he spotted his younger sister and her friends up ahead.

"Can't wait until next year, dudes, then no little idiot sister wanting to size me up for glitter pens and sparkly crayons," he smirked, raising his middle finger as Tracie glanced back, doggy-ear braids slapping her in the face at the movement. She blew a raspberry, rolling her eyes and skipped up the stairs, disappearing behind the doors. Token smirked and nailed him in the shoulder, hard enough to make Craig wince.

"Hush, it's cute, whether you like it or not."

Before the Nommel boy could say anything sassy, Conner scuttled into their path, a well-endowed Esther standing to his left, looking tired, antsy, and nervous all at once, and a shivering Van Gelder to his right. The redhead raised a hand in greeting before it fell to his hip.

"Hang out with us later, Tweeky?" Conner asked, giving Craig a challenging look. The raven-haired boy narrowed his eyes and took a step forward, placing his body in front of Tweek with his lips pursed.

"Fuck off, Conner, go rape your assholey friends and leave us out of it," he growled, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Conner just rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath and grabbed his friends' wrist, dragging them off wherever.

Tweek hid his smile behind his hand, feeling warmth fill his stomach at the knowledge Craig still was possessive and protective. But was it out of sheer habit, or did he still feel that he had to protect the blonde? It didn't matter, he was still satisfied either way.

"Honestly Craig, sometimes I worry about your mental stability, let Tweek hang out with whoever he wants," Token said, suppressing a sigh as he shoved the boys into the building and out of the morning chill. "Really."

Craig waved his hand, obviously not caring as he smoothed his hair out of his face. "Whateva, I'm just trying to save Tweeky from social embarrassment."

Clyde snorted as they turned right, heading for the stairs that would lead them to the sixth grade hallway. "Like you're any more cool then Conner, he's got a fucking cheerleader all over him! That, by far, makes him cooler then you."

Scowling Craig flipped Donovan the finger indignantly and shook his head, not agreeing in the least with that statement. "Esther is the 'off' cheerleader, not quite as peppy as the rest. And anyway, I've got—"

"Red."

Craig came to an abrupt halt, inches from running into the girl. His face turned a deep shade of pink, freckles standing out against the blush as she smiled pink braces and bashfully looked down at the floor. Tweek scooted around Token to see her better and had to grin at how well she was doing. Her straight, long crimson hair brushed against her bare shoulders, highlights illuminating the firey colour. Against the soft cotton off-the-shoulder sweater that was long enough to brush against her knuckles, her hair was a tad exotic, coupled with the crystal aqua eyes she sported that sparkled without a hint of makeup. The jeans were acid-wash and flared, covering her cutesy brown-swirled shoes with sequins stitched to the toes. Although she was still short, she was nearly up to Craig's height, and most likely would have been if her shoes had true soles. Her cheeks were a bit pink, from being flustered or the windchill outside, he didn't know, but she radiated either way.

"Hi Red, I…uh…I…uhhh…Hi."

She put a hand to her mouth, hiding the smile and strained effort not to laugh at his attempts at conversation. She patted his hand awkwardly and sidestepped passed the Nommel. "It's good to see you too Craig—Oh, Tweek!" Red smiled as she looked him over approvingly. "It's a very good morning seeing you back. Well I've gotta run, see you guys in class."

They all stood in amused silence as Craig debated with himself his comment, and settled with a string of profanities. Token laughed, patting him on the back as the grumpy boy slapped him away, to stare dejectedly at the floor.

"Well, I can't say that was very smooth, but A for effort. Why'd you choke up, dude?"

Craig spun on his heel and narrowed his eyes, glaring at the black boy like it was his fault. Finally he threw his hands up in defeat and made a noise like a tea kettle. "I don't know! I mean, I haven't see her in a while but it shouldn't have been like that. It's different," he scoffed, looking down at his feet in a thoughtful look, and glanced up, a finger pointing at Tweek with vengeance. "It's your fault."

"Wh—what?" the blonde stuttered, looking around him but finding no one else, and his stomach sank. "Me?"

Before Craig could throw out his twisted logic, Clyde slung an arm around his shoulders and pointed to Tweek's face. "Does he really look like he cares that you just fumbled yourself up, Luffins? I mean, is this a caring face to you? Confused and bewildered, but it doesn't seem like he really gives a damn who you're boning."

"I'm not boning her you sonuvabitch!"

"Tell that to your Mom who happens to hear you scream in ec-sta-sy every night, and just thinks you stubbed your toe _very_ hard for a _very_ looooong time."

"I'll kill you!"

Tweek watched them bicker back and forth, head tilted in question to the side, wondering what the Hell was going on. Seeing his befuddlement, Token grabbed his wrist, dragging him upstairs where he wouldn't be snarled at for explaining. He let go when he realized Tweek could walk on his own, and casually strolled toward where their lockers were placed.

"So…what was that about?" Tweek asked, checking rows of lockers against the sheet of paper he'd received in the mail that told him where his bus stop was, his classroom number, gymclass expectations, all that happy junk.

"You know how Craig use to have a little crush on Red?" Taking the inclination of the blonde's head as a 'yes', he continued. "Well, last year she sort of starting liking him, I guess, girls confuse me. But it doesn't matter, it's Craig, and he likes attention of any kind, especially from girls. So he ended up doing little things to amuse her, and after a while he got up the courage to ask her out in a stuttering, blundering way like he talked to her today. It was cute in a way, because he was going to such extremes and making a fool out of himself in the middle of a math lesson."

Tweek bit back a laugh, able to imagine a thick-skulled Craig standing up in the middle of class, interrupting the teacher to stutter the question out and being publicly humiliated. And if it was Ms. Garrison teaching the class, he could imagine the woman's feminist actions and cheers for Red to say yes. A knot formed in his stomach, though, as he thought about Red saying yes and the two holding hands on the playground, his sheepish, coy Craig smiling that incessantly annoying protective smile.

Wait, _his_ Craig?

Shaking the thought off he stopped by the locker that was his, and attempted the combination with shaking hands. Failing miserably, Token laughed and did it for him, swinging the locker open with a smile and patted the blonde on the back. Jamming things he didn't need into the locker, and the decorative things he brought, he looked over to his passive, waiting friend.

"What about you?"

Token raised a brow and uncrossed his arm with a smile, shrugging. "I'm livin' the bachelor's life. The girls all sort of took Wendy's side last year when I told her her voice was annoying…she's still pissed about that, can you believe it?"

Tweek hid a smile behind his binder and just gave a nod. Wendy took things personally and never forgave you if you screwed up, so it was no wonder Token bore the brunt of the girls' wrath. "And Clyde?"

"I'm still totally dating Bebe, a bit off and on but we still keep coming back to each other," the Donovan's voice said, arising from the stairwell as he trotted over with a broad grin, obviously happy about his achievements.

"Well, have you gotten up 'cause of her?" Craig asked as he followed behind the brunette, slamming Donovan's locker closed and leaning against it, arms crossed, a brow cocked. Clyde gave him a sleepy look, taking a step forward, noses inches apart.

"Oh, don't worry about me, Luffins, from what I hear you're the one that can't get your fireman standing."

Tweek squealed and had to jump out of the way as Clyde stumbled back into the opposite lockers, but his grin remained broad as he just smirked, ignoring the kids that rolled their eyes or stopped to watch. Craig pushed off of the lockers, recrossing his arms as he strode over to Clyde.

"Yeah, and who told you that?"

"Your mom."

"I'll kill you!"

Seeing that Token was rather disinterested by the two—rather, he was studying the flow of fellow sixth graders from the stairs—Tweek settled in by his side, backing down from wanting to help. Afterall, the two were just wrestling around and flipping the bird, what harm would come out of a normal brawl?

Forcing jittering hands into his front pockets, Tweek looked over to Token nonchalantly. "What were they talking about with firemen and such?"

"Erections."

"_What_!" Tweek squealed, voice pitching higher, causing the surrounding students to cringe against the high note. Token raised a brow against his shocked look and grabbed his elbow, dragging him down the hall toward the classroom.

"Yeah, those two have been at it since last year wanting to know who is the bigger man."

"Why?"

Token flashed bleached teeth in a smug smile. "Well, you know how they do that human growth and development section during school for a week and talk about where babies come from and make you label all the parts?" A nod. "Well, obviously they do that every year until you're out of high school, but it was more in depth than last year. You know, they split the girls and guys up again, and it just lasted longer. We had guest speakers, Big Gay Al came and talked about sexuality and how it's okay to want to bone your friends, Mr. Slave spoke some about whores and stuff, and then this doctor guy from Denver came. He was weird, explained how one of his patients liked his best friend and things like that. It was just a week of gay."

Tweek caught his breath at the mention of the doctor. He couldn't be referring to Dr. Rizzo, right? That would be crazy, why would the doctor come here? He was just overreacting.

"And what does that have to do with erections?" Tweek squeaked, glancing around to make sure no one was eaves dropping on their conversation. How embarrassing that would be.

Token hid his smile as he noticed what the blonde was doing and dropped an arm around his shoulders, dragging him off to the classroom while he spoke. "Well, it's just a proof thing, and a male ego deal. Like, I know Clyde's been there from a rather…awkward sleepover, but no one is quite sure with Craig. He says all the time he's totally been up and about, if you know what I mean, but we're not sure." He stuck his tongue out in concentration and shook his head. "Okay, that's not true, we _know_ he's been up, we jut don't know who he was thinking of."

Tweek nibble his bottom lip as he filed into the class with Token, the only others being a cluster of girls huddled together and chattering under their breaths. They took seats in the back since no seating chart was posted, Tweek in the very corner to view the door and all the windows.

As Token plopped down, shoving his books inside the desk he let out a yawn. "Hell, I hope we don't have to do much today."

"Yeah," Tweek agreed, yawning as well, letting his head dropped to the desk, wishing he'd slept better that night. As soon as his eyes fluttered shut, Craig's voice had him bolted upright and looking toward the door where he was standing, a hand on his hip defiantly, Clyde imitating his pose behind him.

"What the fuck you guys, you ditched us!"

"Well if you two weren't fucking around and being dumb, we wouldn't have left you."

Craig stuck his tongue out and cocked a brow, hair falling over those shining, mocking emerald eyes. He glanced to Tweek for an instant before snorting and walking over, throwing his stuff down at a desk before plopping down gracefully, an arm thrown over the back of the chair, legs spread whorishly to best advantage. Clyde followed suit, taking a seat in front of Tweek, straddling the chair to turn and talk.

"It's tradition, not dumb," the brunette replied in a matter-of-fact tone. Before Token could respond, a fit of giggles erupted from the girls, tittering laughter splitting the chilled air.

Craig hissed in breath between clenched teeth as he turned to the girls, putting on a look of fake cheer and amusement. "What're you laughing at?"

Instead of stopping, they reached their hands up to smother the girlish cackles with knuckles. Bebe was the one to answer as she swung long curls behind her shoulders and batted baby blues, glossed lips turning into a devilish smile. "Kal here was saying how she'd totally ask you out if you weren't with Red."

"Was not!" the girl in question squeaked, face turning scarlet against her dark hair before she buried it in her arms.

"Yeah-huh!" the other girls squealed between giggles.

Craig just smirked, letting eyelids droop half-closed and looked up under bangs to achieve a coy look, knowing well how to work his body language to give off a certain air. "Hush now, ladies, there's plenty of Craigy-kins to go around."

"Unfortunately, Craigasuarus here hits for the wrong team," the snide voice of Eric Cartman said as he stepped into the room, arms crossed above his round stomach. Even after two years, it wasn't difficult to recognize the lumbering hulk of Cartman, with the "Hippies Suck" tye-dye shirt, brown cords, and general dictator posture. What was surprising was the Ringo Starr haircut, flared in every direction, contradicting the hate of the Hippie era. "Bet you're glad to have Tweeky back, now that you can pound ass again."

Eyes narrowed a tad, Craig snorted and smiled against the insult. "From what I've heard, when you're obsessive with others being an ass pounder, you are yourself. Yeah, I bet Kyle g-g-g-get's you drunk, love drunk off his Jew-butt." The girls bust into another round of giggles as Craig sang the line, making him cringe.

Kyle shoved passed Cartman, taking his usual seat and flashing a glare to the Nommel boy, clover-eyes narrowed in disapproval under amber ringlets. "Hey, don't you drag me into this you bitch."

Craig ignored him, as well as the students filtering in, giving the two ringleaders looks of amusement. "Yep, I can see it, you've got a boner for the redhead. Totally want inside him in the nastiest ways."

With a strong will, Cartman just smirked and shook his head. "Oh-ho! You know all about being deep inside, don't you? What's it like knowing one of your most prized possessions is in just another shithole, Craigykins?"

In the motion of pulling to a stand, Craig stopped as Red walked in with Heidi and Wendy trailing behind, and shot the two disdainful looks. "Stop being so crude, both of you."

"Or what, Red?" Cartman challenged, turning on the girl, several inches shorter and much smaller in frame. She tilted her head upward with a Cheshire Cat's grin planted on her face, and pegged him in the shoulder with her fist, driving her weight into it, the 63 pounds enough to off-balance Eric into a desk. He stumbled to regain himself and glared, eyes glassy, a hand going up to rub the tender spot. Red just raised a brow, waiting for retaliation, and realizing he wasn't going to try, walked to the seat saved for her by the girls and sat down.

"Holy shit," Clyde whispered under his breath, the class silent, waiting to see if Cartman would throw a tantrum or not. He just sulked to his desk and sat down, letting his head hit the top with a _thunk_, hand still clasping where he'd been hit. "Red has one helluva temper."

Tweek turned his attention to Craig rather then the girls highfiving Red, or Eric that seemed to be sniffling at the shattered ego, to see what he felt about his girlfriends victory; pride? Impressed? Pleased? Enthusiasm? Embarrassment? What he found written on the Nommel boy's face was discontent, eyes narrowed and lowered to the ground, lips pursed in a frown, brows knit in a line, and it confused but overjoyed the blonde.

The last few remaining students wandered in an sat down, giving the silence an uncomfortable look, before a woman in her early-thirties walked in, four-inch heels clicking on the dirty linoleum tile. A long floral green skirt flowed around naturally tan legs, alerting anyone that cared that she wasn't from Colorado. A white button-down shirt hugged her curves, top three buttons undone to show off an unmarred chest and bikini tanline, a silver heart locket falling between collarbones. Dark curls were pulled back from a pretty face with a butterfly clip, showing off bright jade eyes outlined in black and silver makeup. She smiled at the students, flashing brilliant white teeth and gold braces, a she setting on the edge of her desk, surveying the class she'd be teaching. She was gorgeous for a teacher, and the boys all knew it, except the diamond solitaire on her left hand kept them from whispering among themselves.

"Well, what a lively bunch of students! Though I can't scold you, understandably the first day of school is quite a drag, so today will be rather lenient." She shifted her weight and dragged the attendance sheet from the desk. "Anyway, I'm Ms. Coxnbahls—" several of the students clamped hands to their mouths, suppressing giggles and she smiled "—go ahead and laugh and get it over with, it'll be a rough year if you don't."

"Holy crap, we have a nice teacher for once," Token whispered, leaning over to Tweek.

"To take attendance, we'll go up and down the rows, you'll tell me your name and what you want to be called if it's different so I can make a seating arrangement. And don't worry, I'm all-for sitting with friends, but if for some reason it doesn't work out you'll be switched to somewhere unsavoury for a day, and then back. If you're still a pain in the butt, your seat will be changed permanently until you can prove you've learned your lesson.

"What else? Oh yes! After I've got your name on the sheet, I'd like to hear three things about you, so I can get an idea about each and every one of you. Hm, I'll go first. I have three kids, two twin girls in second grade and a boy in fourth. I love hockey, watching and playing, although that's probably a factor of being married to a Canadian. I've taken ballet for twenty-six years, and taught at Geoffrey before moving here. So, let's start over here shall we?" Noticing she was indicating his row, Tweek squeaked, left eye twitching shut under the scrutiny.

Sitting in the front, Butters shifted nervously in his seat, clacking his knuckles together compulsively. "Leopald Stotch, an' I g-go by Butters." Seeing that she'd finished writing down his name and was smiling for him to continue, his knuckles were abused more rhythmically. "Um, I have two pet hamsters, an' uh, I was a villain back in fourth grade that nearly drowned the world! An' uh—"

"His father is a closet homo," Fosse said between cackles, receiving a deadly look from Ms. Coxnbahls, who redirected her attention back to Butters.

"That all?"

"Yeah."

Noticing it was her turn, Esther sat up, folding her hands under her chin, dark eyes lifting from the desk with vile intent. "Esther Clemintine, no ridiculous nicknames—"

"Don't lie, Essy," Conner said from his seat, grinning broadly, faltering only when the cheerleading captain shot him a murderous look. She turned back to Ms. Coxnbahls, glittering lips turned to a frown.

"As I was saying, no ridiculous nicknames. I cheerlead, I skate, I draw."

Clyde ran a hand through his feathered hair, giving a sleepy smile as Esther feel silent. "Clyde Donovan. I have a dog, love playing video games, and have lived hear my whole life like basically everyone else."

Tweek cringed in on himself, eyes darting back and forth, looking for an escape against the smiling teacher. After a few seconds of not saying a thing, Craig turned around and gave him a look, urging him on. Chewing on his lip he glanced up and let out a squeak. "Tweek Tweak! Gah! I've been homeschooled for two years, an-and want a cat! _And can't take the pressure_!" Seeming satisfied, Craig turned back to the front, arms crossed over his stomach.

"Token Williams. And all you really need to know is that I'm the minority."

Craig sat up, giving his most defiantly sly look, although a smile tugged at his lips. "Craig Nommel. I've an annoying little sister, am allergic to rabbits, and well—" he leaned over his desk, a slender finger pointing to the still-sulking Cartman. "—that fatass over there can go play in traffic."

She seemed genuinely shocked that such a sweet boy would say such a dastardly thing, giving Eric enough time to sit up and glare daggers at him.

"Fuck you Craig! You goddamn asspirate sonuvabitch!"

He lifted a middle finger casually. "Right here, buddy, right here."

Face red from anger, Ms. Coxnbahls stamped her heels on the ground, fist curled at her sides. "Boys! You will stop this behaviour _right now_!" Hateful eyes fell on Craig as she smoldered, and one finger pointed to the doorway. "Counselors office, _now_!"

He let out a long-winded sigh as he picked himself up from his desk, sauntered down the row, and across the classroom, ignoring speculation by the students. At he door he turned back to Cartman and raised both of his weapons with a cocky smile. "Doubly for you, asshat," he said before walking out and jammed hands in his pockets, heading off to Mr. Mackey's with a tune in his whistle and a skip to his step. That was until he saw the sticklike man garbed in green, sitting on the bench outside his office, legs splayed before him, a disappointed look written on his face. Seeing Craig he shook his head and stood up, leading the boy into the office.

"You haven't been in class for more then ten minutes, m'kay, and you're already in my office. You can't keep this up, Craig."

The child in question settled down into the chair he was so familiar with, resolve melting to show a troubled look as he reached up, intending to fiddle with the earflaps of his hat, before realizing he wasn't wearing it and let his hand fall back to his lap. "We need to talk."

"Yes we do, m'kay! You can't be tellin' people to 'play in traffic' and flip 'em off! One day you'll mess with the wrong person, m'kay, and get yourself killed."

"I know, I just needed to get out of there."

"Well Craig—wait, what did you say?"

He glanced down at the floor, his battered shoes, the inspirational posters faded from wear over the years on the walls, peeling paint, anywhere but the man before him. "I can't take it. I want to punch him in the face with a knife, see him bleed to know he's real, and run fingers through his hair and never let go. I tried to prepare for it, but…it's not working, I can't stand it."

"Who, m'kay?"

"Tweek!" he yelled, erupting from the chair and slammed his hands down on the desk, eyes green molten fire before he pushed himself back and paced the room in angry strides. "It's been two years since I told him to fuck off, _two years_ to dwell and let things build up. Two long years of sitting around, wondering if we'd ever speak to each other again, play around, be friends. Two years of finding myself outside his house, or on his porch about to ring the doorbell, dialing his number or writing an email. _Two years_ of complete dependency on memory."

"Why did you tell him to leave you alone, m'kay?"

"I already told you, like two years ago! I couldn't stand his fucking crazy-ass, the lunacies, drugged-up _unfeeling_ way he did things! He was also so passionate about things in his own sanity-deprived, coffee-addict ways, but he was so _blank_ and _gone_ it was crazy and I just couldn't stand being around something no better than a fucking broom!"

"Why did you really tell Tweek to leave you alone?"

Craig turned on his heels, stance aggressive, eyes a whirl of caution and twisted of emotion. "You really wanna know?" he asked, already knowing the answer, and raised a hand, thumb and forefinger an inch apart. "I was _this fucking close_ to fucking the kid! And it scared me, so much, 'cause it's not normal to feel that way, and I knew if I acted accordingly that he'd be gone forever, and I didn't want that…I never wanted him to leave, not like that, but he did and blamed it on me and it was my fault but it hurt so much."

Anger gone, Craig shuffled to the chair and sat back in it, eyes downcast as he fidgeted with his bracelets. "And he became friends with The Mole, clung to him out of desperation, replaced _me_ with _him_. And I hated The Mole for that, for being a better friend then I ever was and treating Tweek with respect instead of as a freak. But even when The Mole was gone, out of the way, I still couldn't do anything, couldn't bring myself to apologizing…because he deserves so much better then what I ever gave him."

Mr. Mackey recalled the day he'd asked if Craig loved Tweek, the nervous flittering as answer, red cheeks that became angry at such an accusation. And the day the raven-haired boy had come by "just to talk", bringing up the subject of his accidental kiss with Tweek—and the confession he hadn't wanted the students there. Just how long had Craig been holding himself back "for the best"?

"Craig, m'kay…do you love Tweek?"

His head shot up, eyes a tad bit wide as he chewed his bottom lip anxiously, hands curling around his jeans. "I'm not gay…but when Tweek climbed on the bus this morning, nervously ringing his hands and darting glances around, blonde hair shining and looking like he dressed to impress…I couldn't help but want to run my hands all over him, make him squeal by what I was doing, kiss the corners of his smile."

His hands went up to grab his hair and pull fistfuls, hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. "I hate what he does to me when he doesn't even know it! Every glance, word; his crazy hair, awkward twitching, voice that doesn't know which note it wants to hit; how he's afraid of bats, rape, drugs, alcohol, anything that might harm; his insecurities, and trust. God, I hate him so much! How a simple smile can make my body tingle with electricity, a glance elates my spirits and makes me want to do anything and everything for him."

He let his hands fall back to his sides, strands of black hair wrapped around his fingers as he looked up, wet tracks running down his red cheeks, accentuating his freckles. "But I can't, 'cause he doesn't want to be my friend, he doesn't want _me_. And it's so socially unacceptable, what would people think? And Red…I couldn't do that to her, even if she doesn't make me want to kiss her and protect her, 'cause she can do that herself, but Tweek needs someone to hurt others for him, keep him safe and secure. But I can't."

Mr. Mackey sat in the awkward silence, amazed that Craig could show so much, and sympathized with him. It had to be hard growing up in such a split society with rules and regulations for everything, explaining in neat writing what a person could do, believe, and the consequences of rebelling.

He reached across the desk and patted Craig's hair back into place with a sad smile. "Why don't you go take a breather, get a drink, go to the bathroom, take a short walk? Just calm down a bit and we'll continue when you get back, m'kay?"

Craig just nodded solemnly as he got up, wrist rubbing his face and eyes as his resolve was rebuilt in seconds, back to cocky, sly, despite his face red from crying. Flipping Mr. Mackey the finger, he walked out, "Back soon," falling off his tongue before the door closed.

---

Nearly half a day had gone by without Craig returning to class, worrying his friends about his whereabouts until Clyde had lightly mentioned "once you get that boy unwinding, it takes hours to get him to shut up". It didn't bother Tweek that he wasn't in class, but he was concerned as to what Craig could possibly take three hours in the counselor's office talking about.

They were released for lunch, the Nommel boy still not showing up, but they were too preoccupied with the thought of an organized lunch schedule to really notice. They stopped by each locker to grab money, and went off with the other intermidiate grade children toward the cafeteria, run by Mr. Derp in Chef's absence, whom had been reasonably slapped into submission of keeping food quality top notch, and not being completely obnoxious.

Tweek sighed as he followed his friends into the line, missing the black man's presence and songs. Hands in his pockets he looked to the ground; it was amazing being in public school again, but some things disappointed him.

"Follow me, Twitchy," a whispered purr echoed in his ear, cinnamon breath tickling his hair. Tweek jumped, cheeping in surprise, whipping around with a hand up for protection, the other slapping outward at the voice. His wrist stopped in mid-swing, caught by a warm hand with large amounts of strength behind it. The blonde blinked, looking into the face of Damien, black eyes swirling with a hint of red, lips curled away from dainty fangs in a smirk of amusement. Before he could say a thing, Damien was dragging him out of the line and the cafeteria doors were swinging closed behind them.

"Kid—!"

"I'm not kidnapping you," Damien snarled under his breath, letting go of his wrist as he leaned against the wall and inspected black-tinted nails. "We have some things to discuss that others don't need to hear about."

Tweek rubbed his wrist, nervousness creating a sinking feeling in his stomach that danced along his skin, irritating. He stepped back to the line of Awareness in his mind, seeing double; the Prince of Darkness standing beside him, and the hollow, dark pit spewing technicoloured ribbons from his Self far below.

"What?" he asked, voice sounding flat and alien to his ears as he dove down into the subconscious, spiraling to the level he knew so well that had housed the Bat King, still torn asunder, but lacking that dark, seductive presence. He poked around, searching—and upon finding nothing out of the ordinary, floated back upwards, double-vision fading out.

"You're correct to have assumed it's about your mindfuck buddy. In a little over then a year, he's regained all control over his twenty-two legions, formed a stronghold and resistance group with the Wyverns, Harpies, and Gulons just to name a few, was cause of several miniature civil wars, and has broken all ties or bonds to Hell he had."

Tweek swallowed hard, suddenly cold from icy spreading through his veins. "In lamest terms?"

Damien pushed away from the wall, flicking dark hair out of his eyes. "Your mindfuck buddy is back, and he's pissed off."

---

Craig left Mr. Mackey's office feeling relieved and stress-free as recess began. Having talked for over three hours, he was glad someone at least knew his position on Tweek, and could help him. The advice was subtle, but proved to be the only thing that would solve his case; be honest, and act on impulse. And despite the thought scaring him, he'd rather be hated then suppressing himself.

He walked down the halls, all anxiety fading to a flitting feeling like butterflies, and icy pinpricks under his skin. Running a hand through his hair he suddenly felt exposed, and missed his jacket, hat, things he usually could never live without. Glancing around it seemed like people were waiting in the shadows and corners for him to expose his secret, become the scum of society. He chewed his bottom lip, tasting the copper residue of blood on his tongue as he turned down the hall that would lead him to the courtyard and stopped, slamming his hands against the wall, leaning his forehead against the cold masonry.

"I can't do this," he whispered to himself, swallowing hard and licked his bleeding lip. "I really, honestly can't."

_Don't bitch out, Craig, if you want it badly enough you'll get your ass out there and take your blondie._

"He'll never accept it, he'll think it's a joke."

_Who knows until you try? Sure, you're a fucking dickhole jerk that's bitched him over on several occasions, but you're also a very persuasive guy._

"I don't want to persuade him, I want him to need me."

_Look at it this way, what do you have to lose? You're not buddy-buddy with him, and he's a bitch-boy so he won't tell. And what do you have to gain? The kid that's been haunting you for-freaking-ever and makes you extra happy in the morning. Just do it!_

With a deep breath he pushed off the wall, placing shaking hands in his pockets and forced himself to walk to those double-doors; one, two, three, four…A step away he hit the left one with his foot and walked through as it swung upon among the boisterous laughing of children having fun. The wind had picked up since that morning, sending his hair in disarray over his eyes as he was jumping over the side of the concrete stairs, nearly causing him to flatten a third grader playing PSP by his lonesome. Muttering an apology he glanced around, spotting his friends by a clump of trees, tossing a ball back and forth between them.

A smile blooming on his face, he leaned up against the building, raising a brow as he watched them struggle to catch it in the tormenting wind. He had to bite back a laugh as the ball rocketed to Tweek who had his hands out to catch it, but as it neared threw himself to the ground with a shout of dismay and horror. His grin broadened as Clyde walked over with a chuckle and helped the blonde up to try the tactic again, with similar results. Even from where he was standing, he could hear the amused argument.

"Tweek, just catch the damn ball!"

"I'll break my fingers!"

"No you won't, Jesus…"

"Yes I will! They'll bend back and go snap and gah!"

"Tweeky," Craig called out, voice carrying on the wind. As coffee-coloured eyes turned on him in inquisition he almost regretted it, breath caught in his throat at the flushed cheeks from playing, and parted lips. "Come here."

Token gave him a warning look behind the blonde's back as Tweek shrugged and trotted over to him, expression carefully guarded, pricking at Craig's nerves but he let it slide as he pushed off the wall, leading Tweek up the four stairs and into the building.

"Where're we going?" Tweek asked, looking around fretfully like an animal knowing it was stepping into a trap.

"Somewhere to talk."

"Can we go to the bathroom first then? I've really gotta pee."

Craig gave a slight nod as he circled back around to where the bathrooms were located near the cafeteria and stepped in first, holding the door for the small blonde that rushed passed him, giving him a look he couldn't describe. He walked over to the sinks and turned from the mirrors to keep himself from being tempted enough to glance over at Tweek. When the blonde was done and walked over, pumping pink soap into his hands and slathering them with a coat of bubbles, Craig spoke.

"Let's talk about us."

"Us?" Tweek questioned, glancing over at him in the mirror as he hit the faucet with his wrist and washed the foul-smelling soap from his hands.

"Yeah, us. Friends or not?"

Tweek shrugged, watching the foam spiral down into the drainage pipes. "You're right, Craigers, who else do I have after you and the guys? No one. So I might as well forget the past and forget our differences. Doesn't mean we'll be best friends again, though."

"I think what you're missing, Tweeky," he said slowly, pushing away from the sinks with his butt and turning to face Tweek in the mirror. Seeing the hostel look in those green eyes Tweek squealed and whipped around, only to be shoved back against the wet ceramic with Craig's hips pinning him to it, his large hands on either side of his head against the mirror. "Is that I don't want to be your fucking friend."

"Wh—what do you want to be then? My enemy? Jesus Christ, no, I don't want to get killed!"

Craig's lips twisted into a short-lasting smile as he leaned closer, letting those devious eyes drift half-closed. "I want to be closer then that."

"Then what?"

The answer was as a firm, knowledgeable kiss, performed with quavering lips struggling to keep restraint. He stopped breathing as Craig ran the gambit, sharp teeth grazing his lower lip, nibbling the swollen flesh, tongue playing over the bite marks. He took a deep, shuddering breath as Craig drew back, expression deadly serious.

"Push me away now, or forever hold your peace."

The decision had been made long before as Tweek reached up, running wet, soapy hands through his hair, and leaned forward, grinding his hips against Craig's. Fingers entangled in the black mess, Tweek pulled himself upward, repaying Craig quite eagerly with a kiss of his own that would lead to long, drawn out moans of pleasure.

---

As the sun sunk below the west horizon, colouring the sky a pastel masterpiece of pink and blue, stars dusting the clear sky, Tweek let out a soft sigh into the night's silence. Homework was completely forgotten as his mind whirled at the bathroom experience, a hand resting on the tender spot of a lovebite on his neck. His eyes drifted closed, blocking off the sight of the ceiling fan and dusty popcorned ceiling to recall the flushed cheeks, lips glistening with his slobber, pale expanse of a freckled chest. Even as a chill ran through the room, aircurrents disrupted by a new arrival, he didn't lift his head from his pillow.

"I want you back inside of me," he finally said, softly so his parents wouldn't hear him from downstairs. "I don't want to forget this year."

"_Sand swirls naught in the glass donned Life. Lost choice, lost wonder, lost hope._"

Tweek snorted, exhaling a breath and raised the hand that had been across his stomach in a casual greeting. "No word play and riddles, it's not something I can stand at the moment."

The bed shifted, drawing downward on the right side as extra weight was added. Tweek cracked an eye, smile never faltering as he gazed up into the stony face he hadn't seen in a year, black eyes without a hint of whites, natural snarl drawn from carnivorous teeth looking down at him from mere feet above.

"_And why would that be, my little rose? You smell of sweat, what have you done while I have been gone?_" he purred, normally distressing voice sweet in its vile croon.

Sitting up on elbows, Tweek shook his head, blonde locks falling into caramel eyes. "It doesn't matter, but I've heard what you've been doing, and I want you back in my subconscious."

Keeping a hand splayed on the bed Curson leaned over Tweek, the other running across his face, a clawed joint pressing against his lips. "_Oh really? There is only one way to get into the content, completely vacant state of mind needed after the initial discharge._" He leaned forward, closing the distance to an inch at most, hand moving to trail down his chest, claws scraping against the shirt roughly. "_Unfortunately for you, I am not quite in the mood for that right now_." He leaned back, eyeing the lovebite with distaste. "_Until then, I'll watch…and I'll wait_."

Tweek watched as he faded from view, and the chill dispersed as well. With a sigh he glanced out the window, a smile tugging at his lips again.

It didn't matter if Curson wasn't going to cooperate.

He wouldn't forget the first day of sixth grade.

Ever.

* * *

The beginning seems rather...out of place and disorderly, and it is, it's there for symbolism and well, a mindplay. Let's see if it works the way I wanted it.

The slashy begins here. Freakin' finally, Jesus xD Rating will get bumped later in, and an uncut version will probablybe available if I can't work around...stuff.

What else...oh! 1.0 and 2.0 were written to be confusing, you won't get it until the very end. It just gives insight into what happens after the events in Expo occur, how the characters react when reminded. Yep


	8. 2 2 Clashed

2.2 Clashed Egos Among Stroke of Dawn

**clashed** _v._

1. To collide with a loud, harsh, usually metallic noise: _cymbals clashing_  
2. To come into conflict; be in opposition: _factions that clashed on tax increase; an eyewitness account that clashed with published reports_  
3. To create an unpleasent visual impression when placed together: _colours that clash_

Fate remains a cruel hand, twisting with the tantalizing falsities flowing delicately from a mouth or two. So easily come by is the feçade, sugar-coated and dripping with sweet, tempting venom. It may be a long drawn out death, played with cards held close to the chest, but while it may be agonizing to let the Queen of Spades have her play, the game is oh-so fun to draw out.

* * *

Tuesday morning, the sky was a delicate shade of roiling grey, blocking out the soft morning sun, casting a haze over the small mountain town. Fog hung in the air, shielding the outside world from sight, thick and tangible like hands, caressing, molesting. Windchimes sung a hymn of despair in the distance, notes echoing in the emptiness. Morning birds cawed in an eerie rhythm, notes clinging, echoing through the cloud of impassible moisture.

_Cakaw ca_.

Untamed grass, limp in morning dew, clawed desperately at the cracked sidewalks, luring any innocent bypassers into the lost world beyond the fog. Passing cars slid through the haze, parting it for an instant before it slid back into shape and the vehicle was lost.

_Ca cakaw_.

Tweek darted glances around him nervously, twisting and turning, batting at the fog to try to see anything recognizable, anything to make the path to the bus not quite so similar to his mental abyss. Cautiously placing each step before looking around, he felt vulnerable, watched, as if there were rifles trained on him and he didn't know where his escape would lay. Each step was a trap in his mind to some new horror that lay beyond the fog, some new way to die a horrible death.

But maybe that was the trap; maybe he had fallen so far in himself, he couldn't discern reality from fiction. Perhaps he was walking his Self, perhaps he couldn't recognize it from not having delved. Maybe this was a dream, a recreation of karma after such a wonderful day before. Maybe he was lost in a world, a dreamscape few and far between, left to wander idly until the elements and survival needs grew too strong and Thanatos was a whisper of pleasure. Maybe…

_Ca cakaw_!

Tweek squealed as he was broken from his thoughts, a crow snapping angrily at him, black feathers falling slowly, held aloft by the fog as the bird climbed into the sky and was gone. He grabbed his chest as his heart beat heavily against his ribs, breathing slowing from the abnormal pace as he shook his head, telling himself to calm down.

"Hey Tweek."

"OH GOD!"

His eyes drew from the ground and he jumped, heart in his throat and the taste of blood filling his mouth from biting his lip as he looked onto Craig, looking smug and questionable. Tweek took a deep breath, swallowing the metallic taste and shook his head, jittering uncontrollably.

"Jesus Christ, Craig, you scared the fuck out of me."

The Nommel boy just smiled slow and sweet as he slumped over on the stop sign, hands sliding gradually into his jacket pockets. His charcoal striped shirt rode upward, showing off a glimpse of pale tummy that made Tweek flush furiously. Seeming to know what his deliberate actions were doing to the poor blonde, Craig's smile only broadened, but never reached those clouded, red-tinged eyes.

"Mm, well what're you doing here at my busstop?"

Tweek tilted his head indifferently as he glanced up at the stopsign were the street signs were mounted. Monte Carlo and Elm…no wonder Craig was standing there. He smiled sheepishly, trying to shake off his embarrassment of having walked several blocks passed his own bus stop, which meant he must've walked out of the house quite early. Instead of answering he just wrapped his arms around himself, looking down at the wet sidewalk, heart pittering in his chest, but not from fear now.

"Must've walked by it," he finally said, glancing up into the brilliantly neon eyes in the grey fog. His brows furrowed, seeing them bloodshot and pink. "Have you been crying? Your eyes are all red."

Craig raised a brow in inquisition as his smile turned to a scowl and pushed off the stop sign, stumbling a bit as he raised a hand to smack Tweek playfully. The blonde wrapped an arm around his waist as Craig giggled to himself.

"Oh Jesus! Dude, what're you on?" Tweek squealed as he held Craig at arms length, searching those tainted eyes for the information he needed. Seeming to understand the accusation the Nommel boy pulled away roughly and raised a middle finger aggressively.

"Nothing you sonuvabitch," the raven-haired boy muttered darkly to himself as he pulled out eyedrops from his coat and dropped them into his eyes with a hiss, blinking rapidly and rubbed them with the back of his wrist. He glared, giving Tweek a look of utter dismay and loathing as he threw his bag over his shoulder and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Wh—what're you doing?" Tweek asked, voice cracking as the Nommel boy grabbed his arm, dragging him through the thick coat of fog.

"We're walking to school, fucktard," Craig growled, dropping his hand and glanced to Tweek disjointedly. "Like Alverez is really going to see us in this fog. Hell, he'll fucking run us down."

"Oh Jesus!" the blonde exclaimed, clasping a hand to his mouth in desperation of the thought, the other lacing around Craig's long fingers, causing himself to turn a steady shade of pink. But after what they'd done and said yesterday, it was completely alright, right?

Right.

Craig looked down at their joined hands, a brow raising slowly, but made no move to stop Tweek from squeezing his hand. Instead he snorted softly, repressing an obvious laugh. "And we need to talk."

"About?"

"Us."

Tweek cast him a sidelong glance, frowning at the look he received. He hesitated in his step until their hands were suspended between them, linked at the second knuckle only now. Craig stopped with a heaved sigh and looked back at him with a faint smile. "Us? What do you mean, us?"

Nommel lifted their joined hands to eye level, the smile fading as his expression turned serious. "This, Tweeky, we need to talk about this."

Brows furrowed, Tweek tilted his head, wisps of the fog snaking around their hands, tantalizing, teasing. "But…I thought we talked about it yesterday? I thought we figure it out. What do we—?"

Craig let his hand fall to his side, gently unlacing their fingers with a shake of his head. "Yeah Tweek, that's what we need to talk about. We can't do this…we can't do _that_."

Unabashed, he licked his lips, feeling the familiar sting in his eyes. Tweek let his hand slip to his thigh, clasping at the air emptily. What was Craig talking about? Why did he look so torn…and yet so firm in his decision? This wasn't how it was suppose to be, this wasn't how he imagined it. "But…why?" he asked, voice cracking under the weight of strain.

He snorted indifferent like it was obvious, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and glared casually. "One; you're a guy, I'm a guy, and two dicks do _not _go together. Two; I have a girlfriend that I like and can do a lot more things with her. Three; I didn't mean any of it."

_I didn't mean any of it_.

That one phrase rang through his head, the tone lashing his heart, reminding him exactly of the simple sentence that had gotten them into this mess:

_I'm sorry, Tweek, but fuck you_.

Before he knew it, desperation and oblivion turned to striking anger, fist clenching until knuckles strained against skin, teeth ground painfully down on the inside of his teeth until metallic copper was swallowed. He spit out blood, chestnut coloured eyes turning a hard amber. "You didn't mean it? _Fuck you_, Craig! You were obviously into it yesterday or you wouldn't have moaned so goddamned hard! And this guy bullshit, who gives a damn? The whole world, huh, that's really why they hired a flaming teacher for third graders, and let his _fuckbuddy_ take all responsibility, right? This has nothing to do with _anyone else_, Craig, it's all some plan you've come up with in your head, that if you're with another guy the rest of the world is going to stone you to death. Jesus Christ, and you say I'm insane? Look at you!"

Craig's expression darkened as he pursed his lips, grimacing at Tweek's voice. It was odd seeing him so worked up, and distasteful. "Heh, see, this is why I can't be with you Tweeky, you work your own misconception as an argument. And even if any of that nonsense was true, I've still got a girlfriend."

Spitting more blood onto the concrete Tweek rolled his eyes. "Should've thought of that before getting hard, huh?"

"Shhh!"

Tweek laughed bitterly as Craig shot glances around through the fog like he had earlier, making sure no one was just out of sight, waiting to tease at his expense. "See Craig, you're so paranoid about what could happen, who could hate you, that you don't see who already does."

He smirked, though he felt something clawing at his stomach, wanting to escape and cause about as much pain as possible. The blood on the concrete and dripping from Tweek's lips seemed brighter in the grey haze, turning insides sickeningly. "Oh, so you hate me now?"

Tweek laughed, a sharp, cutting note through the air, mimicking the echo of the crows' caws and gave Craig the most serious expression he'd ever displayed. "Unfortunately, I don't have an insecurity complex like you, nor am I fickle at the expense of others. I still love you, sorry."

Craig bit his tongue, feeling like he was just punched, hard, in the stomach by the vicious Kyle, or hulk of Cartman. He swallowed back the taste of breakfast and bile, trying to find the words that clawed at his throat, bringing tears to his eyes. This was an unfamiliar feeling, and one he didn't like. Maybe it was the marijuana, hopefully it was. "Why?"

"Why do I still love you?" A nod. "Well, you've been haunting me for years, Craig, this little imperfection isn't going to just cut that off. Oh, and I wasn't faking when I moaned your name in the bathroom," he said with a twisted smile, walking passed Craig, feeling his resolve beginning to break, intended on heading home.

"Sorry Tweeky, but I'm not a fucking fag. Find yourself a different fuckbuddy, I won't have any part in it."

"Whatever Craig," he muttered to himself, crossing his arms over his chest, hugging himself as he turned the corner and ran blindly through the fog.

---

The bus seemed utterly quiet, despite the ruckus the girls were making in the front, giggling in highpitched waves that grated on his nerves, seeming like a dagger being thrust into his temples. Craig leaned his head against the window, watching the thick greyness disjointedly, eyes unfocused, lost in the high of drugs. He shifted his weight, spreading out over the blue leather seat he had to himself, a hand falling to his thighs where he knew a lovebite was.

He didn't understand Tweek's logic. How could you still love someone that called you a fag, told you they didn't love you? How could he be so rational, so calm under the scrutiny, the loathing of someone else? What was he doing now, eating cereal and watching television at home? Working at Harbucks? Out wandering town, relieving his mind?

He didn't know, but he wanted to be right there with the blonde, doing whatever it was, laughing at some stupid joke, instead of riding the musty bus to school. He hated himself for what he'd done, what he knew he'd continue doing, because Tweek was right, he had an insecurity problem with who he was and how others might perceive him. He wanted to get over it, he _had_ to if he ever hoped to stop hurting Tweek.

"Yo', Craig, dude, you're out of it," Clyde's voice rang, laced with amusement and an undercurrent of worry. His eyes flicked slowly to the brunette, the world crawling at the motion and smiled faintly, trying to focus on his blurry friend. "You okay?"

"Absolutely, just imaginin' birds hitting things in this fog," he said with a short purring laugh and raised a brow, the movement making his face feel tingly. "You guys okay? Look a bit restless."

Clyde laughed to himself, though it was full of nervousness. Fluffing his hair he gave a brief shrug, looking over at Token. Williams flashed an uncanny smile as he pulled his coat around his neck and shivered. "Just that Tweek isn't here, on the second day of school. A bit bothered that he's already running."

"Maybe he's just being driven to school," he lied, the false words tickling off his tongue, though it felt like everyone was watching, listening, waiting for him to be exposed as a fraud. "It is pretty nasty outside."

"Except that Conner said he heard you and Tweek," Token snapped, looking over with a raised brow in inquisition. "So who is the liar? And where is Tweek?"

Craig stilled, paralyzed in fear, a shudder running down his spine, gooseflesh appearing, hair standing on end under his jacket. He licked his lips, gaze flicking to Conner a few rows up, laughing cheerfully at something Butters had said. How much had that coy redhead heard, how much did he learn? More importantly, how was he going to use what he did hear?

"So Craig, what happened?"

Snapping back to his attentive friends, he shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant and uninterested in what he was saying. "You know, just shouted "Oh shit!" and went home. Probably forgot something or another."

Before either of them could argue, the bus screeched to a halt, slamming them against the seat in front of them. Craig let out a curse that faded into a moan as he clutched his ribs, feeling like something had cracked or bruised as he hung his head over his crotch, doubled over, trying to regain lost breath as his vision fuzzed over in white. No wonder new buses were equipped with seat belts, bus drivers got crazier each year.

When his lungs finally decided to intake air, and the stabbing pain became a dull ache, Craig stood up, swinging his bag over his shoulder and looked to see how his friends faired. Token seemed fine, a bit irritated but otherwise unfazed. Clyde, on the other hand, was clutching his bruised and bloody nose, curses spilling out of his mouth at every other word.

"Fucking busdriver, who the fuck does that bean think he is? Cocklicking bastard, that's a better job for that shithole…"

Craig grinned to himself at the expense of the Donovan boy as all the groaning kids filed off the bus, flipping Mr. Alverez off along the way. Standing out in the fog, moisture clinging to everything, the girls seemed absolutely dandy, reiterating his idea that girls were invincible and felt no pain.

He glanced around, things much slower then they should have been, looking for the strike of red hair, the florescent jacket, annoying laugh, even Butters. Through the fog he spotted the kid he needed to speak to and bolted, the surreal feeling of traveling back in time taking hold, clawing at his stomach. In reality, he was tripping all over the place as he caught up to Conner and pulled him roughly away from Butters, almost taking both of them to the ground.

"Dude, Craig, what the fuck?" the redhead said with furrowed brows, yanking his arm back and straightened his shirt. Next to him Butters clacked his knuckles, licking his lips nervously at the encounter.

"We need to talk," he said, trying desperately to be coherent, despite wanting to giggle at the way Conner's eyes seemed to swirl between blue, green, grey, purple.

"After being such a dick to me yesterday? I don't think so."

Grinding his teeth painfully, the Nommel boy reared a fist back, seeming slow to him and slammed it into Conner's shoulder. The redhead sucked in a breath and shoved Craig away from him, a hand clasping around the tender spot that was no doubt going to bruise. Glaring dangerously, Conner glanced to Butters and waved him away, saying, "Important business, go find Van and Esther, I'm sure they need some talking to."

"W—well, okay, but don't be fightin', okay?" Seeming satisfied by no response, Butters trotted off to find the two mentioned. Conner's glare never ceased as he rubbed his sore arm, but seeing that he wasn't going to retaliate, Craig lowered his arms and let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

"That wasn't fucking necessary," Conner hissed, pulling the collar of his shirt over his shoulder to point out a bruise that was already forming. "Jesus, I would've talked to you, you didn't have to hit me."

"Sorry," Craig muttered, irritation melting to nervousness as the bright colours faded, leaving the grey fog to swat at his thoughts, tearing away pieces in a teasing manner. "I just…I had to distress myself, and you looked like a good target."

"Well next time hit Butters, or yourself. Right in the nuts so we know you'll never have little baby Craigs," he muttered, walking toward the school building, tired of standing out in the disgusting wetness. Craig followed, dragging glances around him as he shoved his throbbing fist in his jacket. "Ask away, Nommel."

"How much did you hear?" he blurted out, nearly tripping up the stairs as he did.

"Well that's one way to be blunt," the redhead said with a small laugh, pulling Craig back up to a stand and held open the door. "But I think the proper question is, how much did I _not_ hear?"

"Shit," he cursed under his breath, kicking a locker they passed and bit his tongue at the pain. Putting hands on his shoulders, Conner lead him away from anything that he could possibly damage and have to pay for, or from things that could break his feet.

"Why shit?"

Craig glanced up, shoving him away into a group of second graders. Conner apologized at his expense, flashing smiles all around to melt the hearts of the little girls before jogging to catch up to the weaving Nommel. He grabbed him by the back of his jacket and raised a brow. "Why are you being such a fucking jerk?"

"Because you know," he hissed, struggling in vain to get Conner to release him. Surrendering, he hung his head, biting his lip, fist uncurling in submission.

"What's your goddamn point? I know, who cares? It's not like I'm going to run off and write an article to the South Park Times, 'Oh Em Eff Gee, Craig Nommel, bully and bitch of the sixth grade is _gay_. Gasp! Looks like we won't have little Craig's plaguing the Earth in twenty years time!' I'm not that shallow."

A small smile lingered over Craig's lips before he looked back to Conner, raising a brow. "But—"

"Look, man, if you swing that way have at it, as long as you aren't riding my ass I don't care. It's none of my business if you'd rather stick it in the stinker instead of the pinker. And as Tweek said, I doubt anyone else gives a damn because of Mister, uh, Missus Garrison and Mister Slave."

"I'm not gay, I have a girlfriend," Craig growl, glaring now, frustrated that he had to keep reminding everyone of this little fact. What were they, stupid?

Conner shook his head, frowning now, loosening his grip of Craig's jacket but didn't let go. "Yeah, you might, so what? That's just a bit problematic. If you don't love Red, why be with her?"

"I don't love Tweek."

A sigh. "This is what I have a problem with, Craig, not your utter denial, not how your arguments taper down to a nil point, but the way in which you treat Tweek like an object or a puppy that pissed on your carpet is bullshit. It's not a matter of relationship or romance, sex, whatever at this point, it's a matter of mending your shattered-to-Hell relationship, and you're beating around the bush lalala attitude isn't doing it. No wonder he went off to be homeschooled, went to be the Mole's friend, even being a crazy little French fucker he was still a lot more supportive then you. And you know, take timing into consideration. You were a great friend up until the fall of third grade, what happened then?"

"I'm not having this conversation with you," Craig growled, smacking Conner's hand in vain.

"You wonder why he's changed, become harder, thinks for himself? He has to, because of you, Craig, because of assholes like you that will exploit him. Hope you're proud of yourself." Shoving him away, Conner snarled and walked off.

"Fuck you!" Craig called, raising two middle fingers. Underclassmen put hands to their mouths in shock, a few giggled and pointed at how foolish he looked. Kevin raised a brow and patted his shoulder on the way up to class with a,

"There, there, Craig, Conner's just an irritating butthole."

Whirling on his feet, Craig swung his hand but missed Kevin all together, so disjointed by the drugs now there was no thinking clearly. Growling to himself, he put his head in his hands and followed Kevin's babyblue coat up the stairs, consciously registering each one before taking the step. One hand stayed on the rail, clasping with sweaty palms as the other dug into his pocket, bringing out a small pink tablet with a crescent moon printed on it. Grinding down on his teeth he popped it in his mouth, dry swallowing as a smile crossed his face, the bitter taste a relief.

"Hey Craig, heard you made an ass out of yourself," Clyde said, spotting him as he cleared the stairwell and stumbled toward the classroom. He glanced up, everything taking on a neon glow, edges more profound and sharp.

"Maybe," he muttered as he stepped into the class, taking a chance glacne to see if Tweek had arrived, but his spot was empty. Instead he caught Red's cerulean eyes and bashful smile, and felt a wave of nausea rock through him as he lifted a hand and waved. Bebe raised a brow, glossed lips quirking into a smile and made kissy lips, eyes flicking over to Clyde, who blushed a shade of pink.

"Clyde baby, you've gotta talk to Craig about his lack of affection for his lady," she said with that I-dare-you smile, gaze darting back to Craig. He lifted a brow as her ears turned pointed and fury, teeth sharper, face longated to that of a fox as her eyes became more sharp and devious. Running a hand through his hair, he just shook his head, going back to his seat, feeling Clyde close behind.

"Yeah, why not give your lady a nice poke'n'ride, Craigykins?" Cartman asked, turning in his seat, a shit-eating grin plastered to his face that warped like Bebe's into that of a canine. "I'm sure we'd all like that."

"Don't be such a pervert, Theodore, or I might have to do something nasty," Esther said, grey eyes narrowing sinisterly as she bared teeth in a hateful smile. "It's too early for your horseshit."

"Don't defend Craig," Conner muttered as he raised his head from the desk, shifting position to glance at Esther. "Being oh-so manly and correct all the time, I'm sure he can do it himself." Everyone turned to balk at Conner, the usually timid, calm, self-controlled of them all, who usually never had a bad day. Not wanting to argue, Esther shrugged and turned back to the homework she was finishing.

"Dude, what did you do to Conner?" Token asked, resting his cheek against his hand and shoved Craig's chair with his foot. "Besides punch him in the arm."

"Bet they had gay sex and he couldn't make Conner come so he's just all pissed off," Eric retorted as he took a bite from a Snackey Cake, chocolate and whip crème making a ring around his mouth.

"Shut the fuck up you conniving fox," Craig growled, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears. Eric turned in his seat, mouth gaping open in horror, along with several of the other kids.

"Did you just call him a fox?" Kyle asked, a brow disappearing into his amber curls, an arm thrown over Stan's desk as he turned to stare at the pale, sweaty Craig.

"Fuck you Jewsus."

"Dude, he looks sicker than a dog, he's probably just seeing things," Stan offered, his overly sensitive and nurturing side showing passed his hate for Nommel. "You okay Craig?"

"Fucking fine."

Twisting in his seat, Conner glared, ignoring how colour-washed he seemed, how his eyes were unfocused, breathing a bit raspy. "You weren't sick earlier, what's your problem? Guilt getting to you?"

"Maybe I caught your super AIDs," Craig mumbled, mouth feeling a bit too dry, air like lead as he breathed, and all around him were canines, ready to rip into his organs, take strips of flesh and laugh at his pain, insulting, teasing, joke and prod. As the floor turned to a sea of blood, as it seemed they were all ready to pounce with claws and ready teeth, an angel stepped into the room resembling an egret, backwards legs walking over the terror and death to the front desk.

"Settle down, it's time for class to begin. Take out your homework as I take roll," Ms. Coxnbahls said warmly, words weaving tangibly through the air in those damned technicoloured ribbons. Craig leaned on his desk, a hand wrapping in his hair painfully as the other dug into his pocket, pulling out another tablet to dry swallow.

Clyde looked over as he tilted his head back and popped it in his mouth, whispering, "What was that?"

"Mint," he mumbled back as his vision starburst outward, and imploded back. Clyde shrugged, uninteresting as Ms. Coxnbahls scanned the classroom for missing children and _tsk_ed.

"Does Tweek miss a lot of school? He seemed like such a sweet boy, I hope nothing is wrong with him."

"He's usually always in attendance unless something really bad has happened, like a child molester kidnapped him or something," Kyle said with a yawn as he read over his homework for corrections.

Look flabbergasted, Ms. Coxnbahls put a dainty hand to her mouth, eyes widened a tad bit. "And does that happen a lot?"

"Not too much, last time it was the Visitors that took him. Or was it the Vikings?"

"No, I think was those Amazon chicks with the one boobs," Stan corrected, scribbling his name in caps on the top of his paper.

"Oh, yeah, you're right."

"No," Craig mumbled, not looking up from his desk, crawling in slugs that left a trail of sticky, congealed blood. "You're not. It was mimes from Quebec last, not Amazon chicks."

Ms. Coxnbahls cleared her throat, drawing the attention away from the subject of kidnap. "Alright children, let's go over the English worksheet. I'll read a sentence, and call on someone to give the preposition. Then that person will pick the next person to answer, but it has to be someone of the opposite gender, alright?" Receiving a few 'yes's and nods, she smiled and perched on her desk. Craig glanced up, hearing a squawk and just stared. Her suit was white, but not the white of clouds or snow, more like the white of feathers torn viciously from a luxury pillow at an expensive hotel. Climbing those scaly, bird legs were those blood soaked slugs that seemed to grow at each slither.

"Alright, hmm…Bebe. Alex rode the skilift up the mountain to get to the top. What's the preposition?"

Running fingers through her bangs, a fluffy canine ear twitching, she bore teeth in a shy smile that seemed more like she was going to rip someone to shreds. "Up? The phrase is up the mountain."

"Very good, that's right!" Ms. Coxnbahls cawed, beak clacking blackness onto the floor. "Who is next, Bebe?"

"Clyde."

"Okay then, Mister Donovan. You should consider reading the notes before class."

"Before, but it's not actually a preposition, it's like an adverb or something. I don't know. But the phrase is before class," he said, looking up briefly from his stick figure drawings of Bebe rather naked. His ears were floppy with little tuffs of fur on the end, and Craig knew if he turned around that Clyde would look like a puppy dog in the midst of the wolves, dingos, foxes and other animals.

"Very true, and also correct! Who now?"

"Kal."

"Okay Kal. A flying saucer appeared above the lake and disappeared."

She nibbled a clawed hand with long sparkling fangs, wolf ears laying back in uncertainty as hazel eyes flicked up to the egret. "Appeared? And appeared above the lake?"

Ms. Coxnbahls smiled, or tried with that beak. "Not quite, but good try! It's actually above the lake, but you were close!"

Kel smiled sheepishly, trying to play it off as she glanced over to him with those feral eyes and said, "Craig."

He shuddered, flicking his glance at those teeth, the pointed muzzled face and shook his head. He was not going to answer to a wolf, he wasn't going to become their meal. Did they think he was crazy enough for that? Yanking out strands of his hair he muttered a, "No way," between clenched teeth.

"Craig, honey, are you okay? You don't look so well. Do you want to go to the bathroom, splash some water on your face? You seem tense, is everything alright?" Ms. Coxnbahls asked, concern dripping from her beak in a thick, red liquid. The slugs crawled over her face, leaving trails that burned through feathers to bone underneath.

"Can I? _Please_?" he pleaded, tearing his gaze away as the slugs snaked to her eyes, sliding through the gap behind her skull.

"Yes, go ahead, just grab the pass on your way out."

Craig stood up and looked down at the whirling sea of blood that was the floor. How deep was it? Would he drown in his guilt, or be slayed by the canines surrounding him, ready to tear through his mental barrier with insults. He swallowed hard; which was the better choice, what would cause less pain?

"Craig?"

He ignored the voice as he watched the sea swirl and words rise upward, blood sliding off bright white words that made a bridge to the door. He sighed with relief and took a cautious step, testing his weight before actually taking a step.

_I still love you, sorry_.

He smiled , keeping his eyes down on the words that coaxed him from his desk, across the mass of blood that eat away at his feet, wanting him to fall, to drown. But with Tweek's words, how could he?

"Craig?"

_You're right, Craigers, who else do I have after you…?_

No one, that's who. He shook his head, frowning, feeling himself sink a bit into that sea of guilt. He'd have everyone in the world. Token, Clyde, Conner, his parents, Christophe, his extended family, the doctors…_everyone_. He was the only one that didn't deserve Tweek, and yet he had him in a way _no one_ else did.

"Craig?"

_I'm not crazy_.

Of course he wasn't. Tweek was everything but crazy, paranoid maybe, a bit frazzled at the edges, but he wasn't crazy. He knew what he wanted, how to express himself, how to forgive. Who else really could wholeheartedly forgive someone after being so cruel? That's what made Tweek Tweek, something he'd never change in a million years.

"_Craig_?"

Hearing the urgency he looked up, seeing Token hovering near a door, completely normal, no animalistic traits whatsoever. He glanced around the room, the cracked mirrors, grey tiles, hand dryer that was leaking things thicker than blood, stuck faucets pouring out the scarlet death. From the corners of the room spiders clung, murderous intent vivid in beady eyes, venomous fangs squirting a clear liquid that sizzled where it hit like hydrochloric acid. He backed away from the spiders, from Token, until his back hit the wall and he slid to the floor, knees to his chest as he darted his gaze around.

"Craig, what the fuck man?" Token asked as he walked over, Craig clamping hands at his hair.

"Leave me the fuck alone, man, they might not see me if you just piss or something!"

Token balked, looking around the bathroom, seeing it unoccupied except for a stain on the floor that resembled something Stan had done. "They?"

"Yes!" Craig shrieked, looking up at him terrified. Was he so oblivious to the spiders, the slugs crawling in? The blood, even the animals back in the classroom? "They're everywhere, man, just _shhhh_."

With a brow raised Token walked over to Craig and knelt down, putting hands on his shoulders and shook gently. "Craig, yo' Craig, you're scaring me. What's wrong?"

"Everything!" he squealed, clamping his eyes shut to make the sights go away. "He hates me! He doesn't say it but he does, how can't he? I totally fucked up, I totally lied…and he saw through it. He saw through it and was the bigger man. He made me feel shitty, he changed, he doesn't need my help, my protection."

Brow still cocked he tilted his head, rubbing Craig's shoulder softly as tears spilled from his eyes, making those freckles of his stand out. But something was still off, something still wasn't quite right about this scenario.

"I..I don't know what to do, man, it's all so fucked up. I mean, what if I go find him? What if I just go, go see hi, go tell him I'm sorry and shit? If I do those fucking canines will eat me! Or I'll drown, I'll drown in the blood…he can't save me, he can't keep me from falling, there's only so much that he's said that can keep me floating. Shit Token…I'm going to fucking die in this shithole."

"You mean Tweek, right?"

"Yes damnit! Who else?" he questioned, looking up through blurred eyes, but it didn't stop the spiders from leering, slugs from slinking toward them. "Would I be this tormented over anyone else? I mean…damn Token, I'm about to get _killed_ for fucks sake and all I'm thinking about is _him_ and those shining blonde locks of his, coffee coloured eyes, pale cheeks that turn a shade of pink anytime you mention sex."

Token licked his lips, understanding what he was saying, but not why he was trembling so violently, or crying so hard. This wasn't the normal symptoms of rejection, and it bothered him how crazed Craig's eyes did look before, the pupils shrunken in on themselves, lost in the green blaze, almost like a corpse. He shuddered at the thought, remembering Craig's earlier mood, how slow he seemed, how he deliberately looked around the classroom in an obvious panic.

"Dude, chill, it'll be okay, alright? Just please stop."

"No it won't," Craig mumbled, shifting to so he was sitting on his knees and bowed his head, tasting blood in his mouth. He gagged on the metallic copper, spitting it out, but it didn't stop. His hands yanked from his hair, clasping at his shirt now, short fingernails digging into his abdomen painfully, but it didn't relieve the feeling that he was vomiting knives. He choked, looking through the tears to see slugs spilling from his mouth along with baby spiders that crawled away, escaping. He shrieked, swatting at the floor, ignoring the lancing pain each time he slammed his fist into the hard tile.

"Craig, _fuck_, stop it!" Token yelled, grabbing his arms and shoved him back, straining against Craig's bunched muscles, nails digging into his friends' skin as he pinned him back against the wall to keep him from hurting himself more. Just seeing the blood mixed with bile dribbling down his chin made him sick. He could see Craig's skin was bruising at the strain to get free, but Token wasn't going to stop, even if his muscles felt like bursting. "What the fuck did you take!"

"Nothing—"

"Nothing my ass!" Tokewn growled, anger fueling him as he shoved Craig back into the wall at the inch he'd gained. "That was not a goddamn mint you took in class, asshat. What was it!"

Before Craig could reply the world swam in red, bursting in black as he felt lightheaded. His muscles relaxed as he fell forward, the only thing keeping him from hitting the floor being Token. Jumping up, he left Craig laying there, his face turned to the side in case he vomited unconsciously and went running into the halls, screaming bloody murder for help.

---

It was noon, the fog had diminished to a dewy sheen covering anything it could get to, the moisture turning into grey clouds that hung low, hiding the mountaintops, dripping long, slow rain showers down their peaks. Tweek hardly noticed the change of weather, though, as he sat in bed on his stomach, face buried in his pillow to his nose, staring blankly at his headboard, watching a dust spider crawl lazily across the cheerywood sheen, unfazed. It didn't register in his mind that the spider could possibly be poisonous, could possibly lay eggs in his sheets; that seemed a miniscule problem to what he was dealing with.

He'd come home, thrown his things down in an angry heap by the door, and ran up to his room, not caring if the stairs collapsed and he died, it'd be better. With a slammed door he fell into bed, completely drained emotionally. Sure, he'd shown Craig he meant business, he'd shown a tough face and hard resolve…but that was for show, that was to prove that no matter what Craig threw at him, he could take it. In reality, he wasn't sure he if he could, wasn't sure if he was even capable of dealing with the flipper's antics.

"Fuck you, Craig, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you," he cursed under his breath, strained, feeling the familiar tingle come into his eyes.

"_So your resolve has broken, hm_," the familiar, sadistic purr of Curson's voice rang, cutting through the whirring sound of the heater. Tweek didn't bother to look up, he knew what he would see, that smirking drawn back from pointed teeth, solid eyes narrowed in amusement. It was always the same with him, didn't it ever get dull?

"Go the fuck away from me, aren't you supposed to be in Hell?" he murmured viciously into the pillow.

"_After begging me to stay last night? Please, your indecisiveness alludes me_."

Finally rolling over onto his back, sitting up on elbows he gave the Bat-King the attention he seemed to crave. He leaned against the door like a brooding omen of death, arms delicately crossed, long talon-like claws shining brightly against his off-white shirt. He wasn't looking directly at the blonde though, which was oddly unnerving, instead those eyes were turned toward him at a painful angle, staring coldly. His lips drew away from those teeth in a faint smile, honestly entertained.

"_Anyway, it does not take much to break Hell's reigns. Satan does not rule as he should_."

"As _you_ would, you mean," he hissed angrily, annoyed by the chill that was sweeping through the room, emitting from the Bat thingit. "I don't even know why I'm having this conversation, you aren't real."

"_Oh? And since when has this unpredictable delusion haunted your pretty little head? You should known better than all the world what your are dealing with_," Curson sneered, pushing away from the door and stretched, arms popping out of the sockets disgustingly as he did.

"Yeah, an imaginary friend," he scoffed to himself, crossing his arms and pouted grumpily.

"_Please, your imagination does not delve so deep. Do you really believe that the trips into your subconscious are just reveries of your imagination?_" By now the amusement had faded to something fierce, chilling the air to a sting. "_Are you so thoughtless, so dumb, to really believe such things?_"

As he shuddered, a wracking chill crawled over his skin, raising gooseflesh, twitching muscles he hadn't known was there as raw fear held him captive. But what good would running have done? Approaching him from the door was a guarded Bat King, the only other escape was through the window and he wasn't quite up for a two-story fall. Instead he coward, burying his face in his knees, short fingernails clasping wildly at his pants, digging in for the pain, pain to try to forget the looming figure.

"Go away," he breathed, voice a mere whisper, tasting his pulse at each word. "Please."

"_Why recoil from pure imagination? I am at your bidding, you so cleverly believe._"

"Leave me alone, just go."

"_Look at me_."

"No."

"_Look at me_," the pleasant purring voice hissed, threat laced between those three, calm words. Before Tweek was given the chance claws worked into his hair, pulling his head back at impossible lengths, exposing his smooth throat and wide eyes, shining with the beginnings of hysteria. Shocked from movement, the blonde did nothing as Curson raised his other hand, placing his claws gently across the boy's cheek, thumb under his chin, digging in just enough to prick.

"_Should I truly be just a whisper of your mind, could you not control my actions? And yet, it seems quite clear, that is not possible. Perhaps a bit of pain will draw you down to reality?_" An instant of realization, recognition of the word and Curson smiled, digging the claw of his middle finger in under the skin and drug downward slowly, tantalizing. Blood seeped in a dark, scarlet line as the skin split down to the chin and the Bat-thingit pulled away with a look of triumph. As the contact faded, Tweek shrieked at the immediate pain that flared across his nerves, turning the whole left side of his face into a steady, pulsing, ache. He raised a hand to his cheek, catching the blood before it had time to drip onto the bedspread, the scalding liquid pooling into the palm of his hand as if he was trying to force it back into him. He looked with wide eyes at the King of all things nasty, tears sliding in a hot line, burning at the cut, but the sting was nothing compared to the betrayal he felt.

"You've never…hurt me before," he choked, throat contracting around the words, staring at the Fallen solemnly, looking as if he could break.

"_A simple reminder of who I am, sweets_," he said seriously, the voice of the perfect torture-master, business man talking to a new employee. It was a voice of careful restraint, charming logic; the voice you'd use to discourage the acts of a crazy man about to take the final leap to death. And maybe, above all else, that was true and could be applied to this situation. Not a physical leap to the known, but a mental dive through the levels safeguarding the inner core, the Self, that would tear a mind to pieces should it be broken through.

"Please don't," Tweek said, but it was inaudible, soft, the sound of someone breaking from the inside out. But Curson was already sitting gingerly on the bed, wrapping arms around the blonde, pulling him delicately into his lap. He resisted at first, fighting numbly against the hold that kept him pressed to skin too warm to be normal for nil. He relaxed against the claws stroking at his hair, the arm lazily thrown around his waist, knowing that despite the threats, reminders, this was what he considered safe, a haven from the real. It was almost as good as his mother's arms, but here, clinging to Curson's shirt for life, hicoughing sobs escaping into his chest, he knew no harm could ever come to him.

"_Hush, sweets, is Craig's attention, is his adoration and love worth this_?" Curson cooed, letting his voice wrap around the boy like velvet, fighting off any internal chill he might have as his hands rubbed soothing symbols down his back. Tweek buried his face into his shift as if he could crawl into Curson and disappear, calmed to sniffles that caught the scent of cinnamon and sage.

"Everything and more," he mumbled between a yawn, letting a hand curl around Curson's waist as his eyes drifted closed, exhaustion lulling him to somewhere better. He felt a shift in his weight, releasing the strain against the knees and sighed more comfortably as he nestled into Curson's warmth. Feeling movement, he forced himself to look upwards, the Bat King kissing his forehead and whispering something that brought sleep in a crashing wave.

Or maybe he'd just imagined that.

---

Tweek had never considered the feeling of rousing to the pulsating warmth of something inhumane, curled around it, wanting that security only something immortal could give. It was an interesting wakeup call having claws trickle down his spine, soft purrs murmured in a tongue he couldn't place, but it didn't matter, the meaning flowed through freely with the tone. It wasn't a thing like waking up with Craig at a sleepover, this had nothing to do with sexual tension and everything with parental comfort.

Of course, it hadn't lasted long. He'd stretched, sat up with a yawn, and saw by the lines between Curson's brow something was terribly wrong. He'd had a fleeting thought to consider how strange it was that he read the demon so well before his cheerful, content mood fell with four simple words:

Craig's in the hospital.

At first the blonde thought he'd have to hoof it, catch public transportation, until Curson grabbed his mother's keys from the counter and lifted a brow in inquisition with the comment, "_Despite the Church's misleadings, while humans evolved and grew in technological advances, the Divine Kingdoms have as well. We are not as barbaric as many perceive, and we do know how to drive_."

That was an interesting experience. Being dragged to the edges of the subconscious seemed normal, threatened to an inch of life, caught between the clutches of dominance and comfort. However, riding in Eavan's car with the Bat King pulling off tricky maneuvers, other cars passing and making no move that it was at all weird t have one of the Grigori driving, was plain strange. Though he had to admit, it beat running all the way to Hell's Pass in the icy rain.

It was quarter-till two by the time the car slid to a halt and Tweek was bailing out, making a mad dash toward the sliding glass doors most medical establishments seemed equipped with. He shook his head like a dog, water flying into the hall as he shivered in the hospital air, biting back a disgusted noise at the smell. Even here at the edge of the waiting room, the place reeked of oxygen ventilators, 409, bleached sawdust that was used to absorb vomit, medicine, and bodies being eaten away by illness. He swallowed hard, dark eyes taking in the sight, searching for what he needed to see.

And there they were curled at the far corner of the waiting room, clambered into the uncomfortable chairs side by side, touching in that casual comforting way most people tend to do when something horrid has happened. Clyde had the hood of his Cows sweatshirt pulled up around his face, blocking out whatever it was that had happened, guarding himself, an arm tucked under Token's. The Williams boy flicked his gaze toward Tweek as he approached, shoes squeaking on the grey tile, and seemed to brighten just a tad at his appearance, muscles in his shoulders relaxing and a dim smile bloomed on his face.

"Tweek, God, it has never been better to see you," he said, voice sounding as exhausted as he looked, but it had nothing to do with physical tiredness. He offered a smile as he wrung his hands together, bolting into his question.

"Where is he?"

"Upstairs, he's with Conner right now."

Tweek cocked a brow at that and looked around the couples and old woman to spot Esther on the other side of the room, impassive grey eyes watching carefully, gauging some sort of reaction, Butters asleep on her shoulder. He felt a chill run down his spine at that impervious gaze, wondering why they were here as he turned back to his friends. He knelt in front of them, resting his arms on Token's knees and looked up into his face, letting the strained worry show in his eyes.

"Tell me what happened."

Token let out a shaky breath and tried to laugh it off, pinching the bridge of his nose. "He was really out of it this morning, I mean, _really_ out of it, more than usual, couldn't concentrate for shit, and his lies weren't smooth, crafted like he can usually play it off. He actually had to think about it, was nervous, but we didn't think anything of it, we were too busy being worried about you not being there so we—I hounded his ass."

"'So who is the liar? And where's Tweek?' is what you said, if I remember correctly," Clyde said, voice thick with an accent Tweek had forgotten he had, but then again it only showed under the stress of emotion. He had to smile though, Clyde was always better at recalling dialogue, but knew shit when it came to events.

"He just disappeared when we got off the bus, turns out he went and had a shoving match with Conner. But he seemed so disoriented going up the stairs, took too long concentrating on the task, and I knew something was wrong, but you know Craig, he'll deny anything you ask up front. So I let it go, but even the others noticed, Stan was the one to ask if he was okay."

"'Fucking fine' was what Craig replied with, after calling Cartman a fox," Clyde muttered, hazel eyes seeming dull with the knowledge. Tweek looked to Token for confirmation.

"Yeah, he called him a fox, but…it's not what you or anyone else think. Fuck, Tweeky, he was yanking out his hair, pale as a fucking ghost, sweating, really truly sick. He left to the bathroom, shooting glances around and skittered out, and you could tell he was near tears. I followed to make sure he was okay, but he didn't even hear me, he just fell back against the wall in the bathroom and started spouting shit. He was fucking hallucinating, God, and he spit up blood…" Token swallowed hard, breathing a bit heavily as he remembered. It was a shock to hear Token curse, which just reiterated that I wasn't anything good. "It was scary seeing him brought down, upset, physically in pain, that's not Craig, and…just Jesus. I never want to see him like that again."

Tweek rested his forehead against Token's knees, taking it in. He didn't want to imagine Craig like that, stripped from his cocky self, eaten away with guilt. That's not what he meant to do, he didn't want Craig to hurt himself over him. He tried to speak around his pulse, voice sounding a tad too high. "De talked about me, didn't he?"

"What's going on between you two?" Clyde asked calmly, enough that the blonde looked up into those startling hazel eyes.

"He—"

"—overdosed," Token finished with a dark, intelligent look that told the blonde he knew exactly what was going on. "He took two Ecstasy tablets after doing pot and LSD blotters. Shit, he was going to kill himself, go down doing drugs. He was set on that goal, set on suicide. If he hadn't been puking up blood, if he hadn't needed a blood transfusion, he probably wouldn't be alive. It took loosing a pint orally, losing some of the toxins and having new blood pumped in to save him."

Feeling his eyes sting he buried his face in Token's knees, knowing well enough the attempt was over him. And that all in itself hurt. "You're kidding."

Token wrapped fingers in his damp golden locks, petting him soothingly. "He's still got a lot of it in his system, but it's not as bad. He's just sluggish from the morphine and a bit exhausted from the trip. I think you should go see him."

Tweek raised his head, sniffing back the urge to cry and just nodded, putting on his best blank face, though the worry still shone through. He got to his feet, squeezing Token's knee affectionately and slipped a hand under Clyde's hood, ruffling his hair before asking the nurse for admittance upstairs. He signed the sheet and walked through the doors into the silent hall, passing by the cafeteria as he went toward the elevator and climbed on, hitting the button to level three.

"Shit Craig you fucking dumbass," he whispered to himself, staring at the floor, afraid. Afraid of what he'd see, how his friend would react, afraid that Craig might try it again if given the chance. But under that, he was worried about what the Nommel boy was caught up in, how he'd gotten the drugs to begin with. He had an idea with the marijuana, he probably harvested that himself, but the LSD, XTC? How had he gotten a hold of that?

He glanced up when the doors _whooshed_ open, sending a blast of that heated air in his face and stepped out, looking down the hall to where he'd been told Craig's room was. Walking from it was Conner, head hung, shoulders drown up, lines of exhaustion around his eyes. The redhead stilled hearing his footsteps and looked up, cringing slightly but offered a week smile anyway.

"Fuck, I'm glad you came," Conner said in a hushed voice, meeting him halfway so they were two doors away from Craig's room.

"How is he?" Tweek managed to ask, searching Conner's bland blue eyes for something, and only found guilt.

The redhead leaned up against the whitewash wall, hands crammed deep in his pockets and slid down but remained standing, and sighed. "He's better, but there's still some of the drugs in his system so he's a bit…forgetful, disorganized, just out of it, which some of it has to do with the morphine. But he's not tripping anymore, however…he's restrained because he had a few fits at first and they aren't taking chances."

Swallowing back his heart, Tweek just shook his head, "I heard you got in a shoving match with Crag."

Conner snorted back a half-assed laugh and pushed back his sleeve, showing off a colourful bruise. Seeing Tweek's eyes widen, Conenr grinned and let his sleeve fall back. "A shoving match is one word for it."

"So…so you know too?"

His smile faltered, blue eyes finding the tile intensely interesting, but nodded nonetheless. "We got into an argument about you, I think…I think it might've pushed him over the edge. But I didn't want him to fucking go off and try to kill himself because of what I said. I didn't want to nearly murder him."

Tweek smiled sincerely, knowing the feeling all too well. He placed a hand delicately on Conner's shoulder and squeezed, shaking his head. "It wasn't you fault, and you know it. He's just—"

"Unstable," the solid purr of Esther came, drawing the boys' attention to her, face set in a frown as she crossed her arms, hair a frothy mass around that chiseled face. "And has been since the day you left to be homeschooled. He's been building himself up for a let down for two years, and what did he get instead?"

"Acceptance," Tweek whispered looking to the floor.

"No, he got your love and was not excepting that. So what did he do? He ran, hid, denied it up front to keep you both safe." She flicked her glance to the redhead before he could say a thing. "Woman's intuition is a wonderous thing. Now come on, Conleth, we have things to do and so does Tweek."

He watched the two disappear as the elevator doors shut with a mechanical _clink_ and took a breath, turning to the doorway that would lead him to Craig. He could turn back now, lie through his teeth, but what would that gain him besides the knowledge Craig might to it again?

Swallowing back his pulse he poked his head in, surveying the room. It seemed like it was to hold a few other patients, but either there weren't enough injured to fill the occupation limit, or they'd moved the patients out during Craig's "fits". It was like every other hospital room in existence, whitewash, windows done in shatterproof, two-inch thick safety glass, an uncomfortable looking chair beside each bed. The rhythmic _beep_ of the stabilizer pulsed with Craig's shallow heartbeat, IVs forcing the blood transfusion and pale yellow coloured medicine into thin arms, bringing Tweek's gaze to his friend.

Nothing seemed too off about him, despite being held in the hospital. His Germanic complexion was ghostly, tinged a sick grey, dusted freckles seeming blotchy and dark against it. His messy hair curled wildly, soaked with sweat, brushed back from his face, and if Tweek didn't know better he'd have said his hair looked like it was bobby-pinned. Dilated neon eyes glanced to him sluggishly and a small smile formed on Craig's lips as he raised bandaged fingers in greeting, wrist strapped down to the bed-bars by buckled restraints.

"You look awful," the blonde offered as he shuffled over, eyes shifting over Craig's chest, pale and bare, rising in steady _thumps_ with two suction pads stuck on to monitor the beat.

"I feel like shit," he muttered, voice a purring slur as he struggled to sit up as far as the restraints would allow. He shook his head, pain flashing across his face for an instant and gave up, settling into the pillows uncomfortably. Biting back a sob at Craig's condition, Tweek pushed the button that shifted the bed into a sitting position, hands shaking as he did.

"How are you?"

Craig lifted a brow with a normal cocky smile and laughed, though the effort seemed to hurt. "Been better, Tweeky, damn have I been better." Confusion crossed his face as he looked up to Tweek, a frown taking hold now. "Why are you here?"

"You're hurt, I came to visit," he replied, voice sounding small and foreign to his own ears. He placed a trembling hand on one of Craig's, taking care not to touch the gauze across his knuckles that had bled through, leaving small brownish dots against the stark white. "Am I not allowed?"

"You yelled at me, we're fighting, why come see me?"

"I told you, I love you, and you're in the hospital because of it. I—I'm willing to forget our argument, if you are."

Craig licked his chapped lips, considering the deal and gave a slight nod, pain flashing across his face for an instant at the motion, a small whimper escaping. He stilled under the tightening hand of Tweek, a small smile appearing to mask the ache. "I can pretend it didn't happen, but I can't promise to forget, I was so terrible to you."

"Don't you dare guilt trip yourself"

He laughed, the sound harsh from a throat burned by bile. Tweek raised a brow, shuddering at the sound, so unlike Craig's normal coy, perverse laugh. The laugh melted into an impish smile that promised none of the pleasure that smile was usually laced with. "Where's your stutter, the tremour, the fright? What, it's been a year, two since I saw you that summer? What's happened to you in that short amount of time to twist your personality to this…hardass," he said, whispering the last as a promise to what should come.

"I think it's what _hasn't_ happened," he replied weakly, feeling vaguely like he was staring into Curson's dull gaze.

Again that flash of a smile as Craig pulled against the restraints, sliding forward as far as allowed, fighting against the pain. "Maybe, but there's always time to rectify that situation."

Tweek couldn't help the smile that formed despite being well aware he was looking into drug induced Craig's eyes, not sane, understandable Craig. It didn't stop him from reaching a hand across the bed and wrapping cold fingers around the bar, shoulder forcing the Nomml boy to lean back. Tilting his head he gave Craig a long hard look before kissing him, tongue running along the inside of his lower lip, tasting the cold tingle that _Icebreakers_ mints created. Tweek leaned back, licking his own lips as he savoured the particular flavour, deciding that by the harsh mint it had to be something along the lines of spearmint.

Leaning into it again he paused for a brief moment before yanking his hands back from the bars and jumped a good two feet backwards, tripping over his feet, sending him toppling backwards onto his ass, momentum sliding him back even further a few inches, hands brushing the opposing wall now. He let out a groan and bit back a curse, tears springing into his eyes at the ache now radiating from his posterior.

"Was that completely necessary?" Craig asked, a hint of amusement laced in his hoarse voice as he stared down at Tweek, a brow cocked into his hairline. The hospital scene taken out, and the dilated pupils to those dazzling emerald eyes, the blonde would've said this was the real Craig.

"I—uh—no I didn't mean—I wasn't planning on—my butt hurts," he settled with, using the wall to his advantage and pushed to his feet, hands rubbing his bum as if the friction would help dull the pain.

"And you pulled away because?"

He shook his head, droplets from the raining sliding along his locks and fly around him, splattering in glittering spots where it touched. "I'm not helping you cheat on Red, I won't do that."

"But—"

"No, Craig," he said harshly, raising a hand to cut off the argument. Staring at his befuddled, bedridden friend he felt a pang of guilt, but he wasn't going to be the instrument that broke them up. "I'm not doing it. If you think this is as important as I do, then you can talk to her." That look of sheer horror, panic that crossed Craig's face made him feel like the boogyman but it had to be said. "You _need_ to talk to her."

Expression turning stoic, the only thing left of disapproval was the uncertain look in his eyes. Craig gave a brief nod, licking his lips nervously, and if his hands weren't tied down Tweek was well aware he'd be running them through his hair. "I'll talk to her. Can I at least have a goodbye kiss?"

It took a long few seconds to realize Craig wasn't implying he'd chosen Red over the blonde. With a begrudging smile he walked back over to the bed, leaning forward slightly, letting the Nommel child strain as far as he could, revering in the control he had. At his friends' irritated grunt he pressed forward, brushing his lips against Craig's in a chaste kiss and pulled away. Again that irritated grunt that crossed into a low moan as Tweek ran teeth across the sensitive skin of his neck, where a lovebite already resided. Craig bit back a hiss of breath, skin crawling with delight as he shuddered under the touch.

"Get off, Tweeky, there's some things the nurse does not need to see," he mumbled, head thrown back as Tweek sank teeth above the pulse for a moment and pulled away, giving Craig a strange look.

"Ashamed?"

"I was more referring to the hard on I'm going to have if you continue," he said a bit breathy, giving his blonde a naughty look. Blushing furiously, Tweek yelped and jerked away, clenching his eyes against the images.

"Gah! Shit, Craig, don' t _tell_ me that! I'll have nightmares!"

"Wetdreams is more like it," Craig said, giggling. Tweek cocked a brow, coming to his senses at that girlish sound and remembered the drugs his friend was being pumped with, how he had to be straining to keep his thoughts together. Shaking his head, Tweek walked around to the other side of the bed and raised a hand, waggling fingers, eyes drifting to the pile of clothing on the chair, a set of dogtags glittering on top. Hiding a smile behind his hand he watched Craig queerly; so that's where his own set had come from.

"Maybe," he said with a light laugh, grinning as Craig's face softened, eyes falling half-closed as he put on his own dopey smile. Folding his hands behind him Tweek shook his hair from his face, walking backwards toward the door. "I'll see you later, okay? I love you."

He kept walking before turning on his heels and fled, throat tightening as reality came crashing down, spilling down his cheeks as he crashed into the elevator and slid to the floor, sobbing, silence echoing after.

---

Before noon the next day Tweek found himself sitting in Dr. E. Micraine Rizzo's office that hadn't changed much from the first day he visited, heater whirring in the quiet setting. The chairs from years ago were replaced to something softer and more cooshy, a brave off-white colour that seemed to made the wood-paneled room glow under the diplomas and bookcases chock-full with medical bindings, covered in a thin layer of dust. The only addition to the room was a sofa-lounge in front of the one tiny window, blocking light with heavy shades and deep blue curtains. Tweek kicked his feet, toes of his _Converse_ making dull _thuds_ against the edge of the desk as he looked up to the man that he'd known most of his life.

Dr. Rizzo still had the gentleman's air about him, but within the two years laughlines had creased his tanned skin to add a sense of sincere honesty, along with the perpetually disapproved lines between his neatly trimmed brows. His hair was done modestly with gel, thinned, silver patches at the temples spreading into the receding hairline. Behind goldframed glasses intelligent grey eyes stared down at the paperwork spread in a neat arrangement across his desk, long pianist fingers steepled over his lips as he filled something out. He'd left off his doctors addition coat, leaving it laying across his office chair, showing the slateblue dress shirt to best advantage, a dark plaid tie done to the collar in a perfect knot, tacked down with a gold cross.

Tweek sighed, hands fidgeting with the dogtags flashing in the dull florescent glow of the desk lamp, kicking on reflex, hitting the desk fullforce and yelped. Dr. Rizzo didn't even flinch, instead he set his ballpoint pen down, smoothed the tie over his chest and smiled brightly, ignoring Tweek's harsh, whispered curses.

"My favourite blonde, just as twitchy as ever I see! Now, now, I heard your friend—Craig Nommel is it?—is in the hospital. How'd that happen?"

Shifting position to tuck his injured foot under his butt Tweek glowered at the floor, biting his lip and glanced upward into those storm-coloured eyes. "What about picture analysis? We always do that first."

Dr. Rizzo let out a breath, lifting a sheet of plain white paper up, drawn on in black gelled ink. Most patients tried to keep a strict schedule, avoiding change if at all possible, and the young Tweak seemed no different. His eyes scanned the paper, formulating his answer.

The image was rather extraordinary, and different, for Tweek's usual. It showed a young Tweek, crosshatched and shaded to perfection, falling backwards over the edge of a squiggle. However, while tipping off balance a hand was wrapped around his waist and entwined in his hair, from a completely blacked out figure of an older male by the height difference. The male was leaned at the waist, face close to Tweek's, a wispy patch of white left untouched from the blacked out surrounding of the blank background, minus a few fingerprints. Over the males head was a thinned ring of uncoloured paper, along with a small white outline that kept the figure from disappearing into the inked backdrop.

"Well, let's start simple, like the figures depicted. This," he pointed a slender finger at a childlike illustration of the blonde, "Is obviously you. You aren't submerged in the black, like the other figure, but you still added harsh sections of shade to bring out certain aspects, the frailty of a young boy's body, like yourself. You're bent, falling backwards. Falling is associated with many things, insecurities, instabilities, and anxieties being most common. In other circumstances it could reflect a sense of failure or inferiority to a situation you find yourself in. In good ol' Freudian theory, falling can indicate a crumbling self-control to a sexual urge or impulse.

"But take into account you're letting it happen—your hands are on either side of this figure, but loose, as if just the shock of letting yourself fall into this pit of whatever it is, grabs hold of instinct to reach for something. So you're accepting and playing into the fall, letting it happen freely instead of restraining against it any longer. The body language shows you're relaxed, a bit anticipatory, with unrestrained longing of whatever the fall brings.

"However, then you must take into account this male holding you back. He doesn't want you to go through with the fall, and by the tense set of his shoulders and near painful grasp he has around you, it seems he's angry about it and resentful. The positioning, being almost coiled around you and setting down to your eye-level shows a complete understanding and trust. He wants to be your protector and is trying, it seems, but then there's the signs of aggression within the stance as well that shows he wants to be the dominating figure of your life, as he holds the reigns of whether you do indeed fall or stay on your feet. There's something unspoken going on between you two by the white swirls between you, which would signify a type of peace offering.

"Of course, the figure is blacked out, hiding any identity he might have. Black is the colour of mystery, danger, unknown, malice, and it seems you both know that well. The lack of colour or identity shows even you aren't quite sure as to who he is, or his motives. However, by the thin line of white around him, you acknowledge that there's some good or innocence in whatever the motive is, even if it benefits the male."

"You say male, why?" Tweek asked, looking up at him with dull eyes, revealing nothing. Dr. Rizzo smiled to himself and cough behind his hand, considering how to word the answer.

"Well, Tweek, most boys your age would take great care to…endorse the female physique. This figure, however, has a clear masculine body, and it's hard to come by a woman that tall." Sobering he set the image down, elbows resting on his desk. "May I ask who it is?"

"Curson!" he squeaked out, not even trying to hide it. "He's a, a fallen ang—"

"_Secrets not yours to utter, sewn shut the chasm that echoes_," the purring voice rolled through his mind, sending a shuddering up his spine.

"Angel? Oh, quite aware," Dr. Rizzo's cheerful voice said, raising Tweek's gaze to him. Smiling broadly the doctor opened his desk drawer and pulled out an elaborate silver letter opener, sharp enough to slice through flesh if given the chance. The blonde watched, not registering what was going on until Dr. Rizzo splayed a hand on the desk and raised the letter opener above it, still smiling.

"_CURSON, STOP IT!_" he yelled angrily, flying to his feet, chair toppling backwards at the downward motion of the letter opener that _thunk_ed between the doctor's middle and forefinger, slicing an inch into the antique desk. Tweek let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, muscles slowly pulling from the tight grasp, eyes closing against the sight. Feeling a brush of cold air against his face he cracked an eye open to see the demon-in-question standing behind the doctor to one side, a delicate smile curving his stony lips, pale yellow teeth catching the light as he ran a claw along the immobile, statue of Ethan's jawline.

"_It is not a wonder why he has so many plaques glittering in a showcase of intelligence, he is quite the psychologist, knows too much, I think, for his own good. The best in the state, I presume? Could only be with such an accurate reading, just from an illustration as well! Yes, the fine doctor here knows far too plenty_."

"Don't y—you even dare," he said shakily, fist curling menacingly as he glared at the Bat King. Curson just smirked as he pulled the letter opener from the desk in a fluid motion and twirled it dazzlingly between his claws. Tweek resisted the urge to throw himself to the floor, knowing that if the demon wanted to he could toss the small knife in a quick movement and hit something vital.

"_Oh, you do not think Ethan Micraine Rizzo is intelligent? Are you just that predictable, my sweets?_" He swept a considering look over the boy, sending chills dancing down Tweek's skin. Curson gave a brief shrug as he ran the blade's flat across Dr. Rizzo's temple in a sharp movement, rolling the blade around his skull. "_No, I do not believe you are. So why is it you will stand against me now for this man?_"

Idly the blonde wondered if anyone was going to come running to aid him by his yells, but he realized a second later the room was reinforced and soundproof to keep conversations as confidential as possible, putting the doctors in risk of danger should a patient decide to get violent. If that was the case, then the security cameras guarding locked drawers of patient information would have been turned off during meetings, unless sound didn't go through with the government cameras. That was probably more logical, so why wasn't a single nurse trying to break the doors down?

Simple, divine intervention. Normal technology doesn't capture what many are skeptical about—only true believers would see the Bat-thingit on camera and the violent intent taking place. However, not many people were true believers, and the amount that was hired as security was nil and zip.

"He—he's helped me. Please d—don't do this," he pleaded, licking his lips nervously. He'd be outmatched with brute force, and a struggle of the mind would resolve in a collapse of consciousness—and the subconscious. There was nothing he could do but sit back idly and watch Curson tease.

Curson _tsk_ed, clucking his tongue against his teeth as he did and tocked a claw back and forth in disapproval. "_No, he has disillusioned you, made you trust the untrue and simple drugs to solve what takes a strong will. He does not deserve this_," he said, waving a hand around the room. "_He has gained this on science falsities, not the reality of the mind, which psychology is all about. Ethan is just another observer of many that believes that medicine is the cure-all for any given problematic situation._"

"It—it works! You just—you don't like being restrained," he said with a pout, glare only intensifying at being told he was wrong. Curson smiled at how fretful he was being, the blade resting just below Ethan's earlobe, gingerly placed at the soft spot the jaw connected to the skull.

"_It happens to work so well, I am standing here with a knife resting on a crucial point of the body. It takes just a jab and a bit of muscle behind it to work this pretty little mail opener into the groove of the jawline. A slight tilt, a nice shove, and it shall be imbedded into the temporal lobe, and should the aim be well planned, it would grace the frontal lobe. How ironic, that within a second this intelligent, Princeton graduate could be reduced to simple retardation, having all skills stripped away that he once lectured and 'cured'. An adequate death, if any_."

"I'll kill you," Tweek said calmly, voice evening out with the anger that overcame anything else. Curson grinned, eyes flashing something; triumph, maybe.

"_And I shall ask, is it possible to destroy that which plagues your existence, knows the farthest corners of your subconscious? Should it be possible, please, do, go right ahead._"

Tweek looked disheartened at the floor, the same sky-puke colour it had been for years as he rubbed his hands together, delving for the answer he needed. "I'll give you a kiss, I'll fuck you, I'll do whatever sexual thing interest you if you don't hurt him."

Curson raised a brow indignantly and huffed, shaking his head, despite the fact his eyes trailed over Tweek's body in a lusty manner. "_It would not be sincere, so therein I refuse the offer_."

Tweek bit back a sigh of relief, but by the Bat King's smile he knew that Curson felt his panic dissolve. "My first born."

"_You do not seem to be the candidate to be having children, with your attraction to men. I will give you a last chance to save the doctor's poor excuse for existence before the knife plunges deep_."

Swallowing back fear Tweek considered a gift that would be worthy, finding the answer relatively quickly. "I'll let you in my mind at any time—"

"_Now_." Before Tweek had a moment to protest, he felt the chill brush against his mind before slamming him offguard downward into the spiral he only seemed to enter when Curson was around. However, this time there was no Bat King to stop him from shattering his Self, instead before even reaching the line of Awareness he hit a thick restraint, like trying to force through a wall of _Jell-O_. He pulled back, standing on the barrier and looked down into the depths of his mind, the three layers shimmering translucently, and far off was his mental demon, taking the steep dive like it was nothing and spiraled off out of sight. It seemed like minutes he was left, standing on the squishy layer keeping him from entering his own subconscious, with nothing better to do then try out buoyancy. He bounced around for a while, doing summersaults and rolls in midair, giggling to himself a if it were a trampoline before being slammed back into his body without a single moments hesitation. He stumbled, mind fuzzy and disoriented, trimming over his feet and tumbled to his butt, smacking an elbow against the chair he'd knocked over earlier.

"Gah! Shit! A little warning next time," he moaned, rubbing his eyes painfully as his vision funneled to a small line of sight before breaking in a burst of coloured dots, blinding him for a moment. He stared up at Curson, leaning against the desk, clawed hands trembling slightly as he laughed drunkenly. "Find what you wanted?"

"_Oh, yes, enough to have predictable outcomes for quite some time. Mmm, yes, this man is yours to do as you please. Right yourself and the chair, as soon as I leave he will be back into the evasive questioning,_" he said with a slight slur, purring accent noticeable too well as he flashed a grin, stumbling over his own feet as he pushed off the desk. Tweek took his time getting to his own feet and set the chair back to where it has been, plopping down in it with a brow raised.

"So you won't be invading my mind anymore?"

"_Do not misinterpret me. All in due time, sweets._"

Before he could argue the Bat King was gone, the chill disappearing with his vanishing. Dr. Rizzo hardly seemed started as he shifted his papers, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the wood, unaware of how close he was to death, how his mind had flipped a switch and turned off to easily against foreign invaders. Instead of running screaming he lifted his eyes and asked, "Anything wrong, Tweek?"

The blonde smiled. A smile, forced smile that hid the tension wonderfully. A smile of an innocent bystander, a little boy that knew no better. A smile laced with nervousness that formed a tic in his jaw; a smile that promised everything would be hunky-dory.

A smile he'd use later as a sadist.

Instead, he just shook his head and said as cheerfully as possible, "Of course not Doctor, what could possibly be wrong?"

_Everything_.

* * *

**A/N: **Er. Hi. So it's not dead afterall. However, don't expect updates. I refuse to let my baby fizzle out, but I'll do it in my own time. I'm jugglin' many-a task at the moment that get kicked ahead in the priority line then E86. But I refuse to give up on this completely, damnit. Not enough bloodshed yet xP When school start (August 8th), I promise nothing. Sorry, I hate to leave this beast hanging but AP work is more important. I want those damn college credits -shakes fist-

-Cor


	9. 2 3 Uncertainty

2.3 Unbridled Uncertainty, Emotional Shortages

**un·cer·tain·ty **_n._

1. the state of being uncertain; doubt; hesitancy: His uncertainty gave impetus to his inquiry.  
2. an instance of uncertainty, doubt, etc.  
3. unpredictability; indeterminacy; indefiniteness.

Sometimes, it takes us absolute failure, absolute bottom, to realize those important, those values needed in every day existence. Sometimes, this is a false sense of budding security to muddled us through the fabulous deceptions life has to offer us. Sometimes, friendship is nothing more that a game played by curious pawns. Sometimes, we all just have to sit back, watch….and wait.

-

Everything was an emotional blur. The visitors crying, begging, asking forgiveness, asking why why why. The silky shadows smirking with fangs, the hint of claws raking skin when no one else was around, the voices crooning, coaxing from below in his subconscious. When the light shifted and colours burst there was always someone new looking down on him in pity, in misunderstanding; his parents, his friends, his teachers, the townsfolk, the nurses, his person demon with honey eyes dripping in sweetness out of worry and concern. Through the dizzying spell of the after-drug effects blood dribbled from his mouth as his body rejected the chemicals, scaring those that mattered most.

He was knocked under and released on Thursday, with the orders to stay home, as things hadn't quite quailed at school, and lectures, counseling, and talks to the children were still underway. At first, it wasn't hard to keep Craig under control, as the medication they had given him kept him just beyond the ring of consciousness, sleeping peacefully. He swayed back and forth in the chaos, floating through his thoughts, arguing with himself and his self-doubts. And among them was the warmth and security Tweek possessed, the fluttering feeling produced deep in his stomach whenever he caught his twitchy friend's glance.

Craig fought with himself, crying out, warring against the swelling affection for his best pal. He clawed, pulled chunks of his hair, yelled and screamed into the subconscious plummets of his mind. It was wrong, it was…_gay_. All through his life he'd heard nothing but how homosexuals were wrong, sent by the Devil in the form of temptation, to lure you away from the path of righteousness. That even remotely considering the idea of ruining the sanctity of marriage by fouling the bounds of matrimony with someone of the same sex was absolutely forbidden, a sure-fire way to Hell. And yet…the town was alright with Mr. Garrison, friendly enough with Satan. And hadn't his generation already proven themselves Hellspawn, no matter?

Inside the darkness of drugs, Craig tempered. So what if he liked Tweek? His snazzy little blonde made him happy, curled the corners of his lips into a smile when he was around. It was different then what Red did to him. He liked her, liked the perceived impression of normality by having a girlfriend, but she was cool, she was like a guy to him. Could kick his ass at video games, already proved she could take care of herself, liked to play dirty when the opportunity arose, and yet had that girlish charm where she could bake a mean batch of cookies when the time was right.

Tweek, on the other hand, drove him into insanity, and now it was worse. He didn't know what to do anymore; _his_ Tweek needed protection, needed someone to chuckle at his tirades and feed his caffeine addiction. But the tweek that had walked onto the bus and back into his life on the first day of sixth grade had backbone and was headstrong, determined and uncaring of what others thought. No matter, Tweek was Tweek, and had his head in a tizzy, his emotions uncontrolled and on edge.

_That_ was proven by the unrestrained, needful session in the school bathroom. The clumsy, dominating actions, accented by two years to dwell, think, become angry, and realize just why he needed Tweek around. It was proven by the way he treated his best friend of so many years, by walking away from him, lying when he needed certainty most of all. Out of fear; fear of what everyone would think of him for loving a boy, for loving Tweek; fear of what would happen afterwards; most of all, fear of hurting Tweek in the long run. It seemed the better decision to push away, distance his blonde when he had the opportunity, then fall to desperately into the tangled skein of Fate.

_His blonde_. Craig laughed, choking on a sob as he fell deeper into his Self, away from Awareness at each passing thought, his descent progressive with the ability to realize finally what his paranoid freak meant to him. He would do anything to keep anyone from harming him, except himself. The irony of that sent him over the edge, into sweet darkness, crimson eyes staring down at him the last thing there before fading to nothing.

-

It was the mouth-watering smell of roast floating through the ventilation system that stirred Craig from his slumber. He moaned, hand tangling in his hair as he pushed on his forehead, trying to quail the headache that exploded to no avail. He felt queezy, either from the remnants of the drugs or the fact he hadn't eaten in days, he wasn't sure. Pushing himself up in his pillows, he cracked his eyes open, looking around to find the window ajar and the curtains fluttering in the chilled wind, golden sunlight streaming in from behind the evening clouds, casting long shadows and putting a hardedge on everything it touched.

Except, of course, the soft face of his sister, haggard with the strain of meeting his neon eyes. She looked rumbled, but it wasn't from exertion or walking in the wind, it had a feeling of inside exhaustion that left the puffy circles under her eyes. She sat at his desk, hands clasped together, lips pursed, saying nothing as he sat further up in bed, shaking his curled and matted hair out, in an attempt to look decent, and gave a weak smile.

If it had been his friend, his parents, even Tweek, it wouldn't have been as hard as looking into his kid-sister's disappointed eyes now, too tired to brim over with the emotion he could tell she was hiding to restrain. But Tracie - despite all the difference they had, all the fighting that had ensued over the years - still looked up to him, still thought of her brother as a hero for looking out after her for all the years she tormented him.

He sighed, catching her gaze once more, and knew she wouldn't speak until he did. "Why do you look so down, Brighteyes?" he asked, hoping her childhood nickname would spark some sort of smile.

It didn't. Instead, her look flared angry, fists curling until Craig worried her knuckles would burst through the skin. She ground her teeth, freckles popping out against the flush that crept over her face, and the small, teakettle-like noise that hummed from her throat had him nearly cowering.

"What's _wrong_? Why am I _down_?" she said evenly, the temper cutting through her words as she slowly started her Hellborn path to his bed. Craig gulped. "Could it possibly be that my brother, my one and only dumbassmutherfuckershittings onuvabitch brother tried to kill himself? That the person I look up to is taking a godawful assortment of drugs? You THINK THAT COULD BE?!"

By now, Craig had swung his legs on the opposite side of the bed, putting it between him and her. Unlike him, who had a quiet, deadly temper, Tracie rarely got angry, and when she did she exploded. And when she exploded, nothing on the face of Earth was scarier or more dangerous.

"Tracie, jesus, shut the fuck up and calm down-"

"CALM DOWN?! _You _want _me_ to CALM DOWN?!" she practically seethed, spitting venom as she launched herself over his bed. Even woozy, Craig dodged the oncoming redhead and darted around the obstacle that may be his death, heading straight for the door. His guinea pigs scuttered around in their cage, frightened by what could only be a crazy women.

Craig wasn't fast enough, not with a door that had been successfully locked against his escape. Wind whooshed from his lungs as he was knocked flat on his face, the fifty-something pound menace struggling to keep him down, but Craig didn't want to hurt his sister. After a brief tussle that landed him rolled onto his back, pinned with a snarling eight-year-old sitting on his waist, he gave up.

"Brighteyes," he soothed, running his hands up and down her shaking arms that held his shoulders painfully to the ground. "Don't do this. Calm down. I'm still here, I'm still around to be an asshole, so can you please stop trying to take me to my death?"

Her glare only intensified, and it was only after the wetness hit his face did he realize she was crying, the trembling from holding back her wrecked emotions. "What were you thinking?" she finally whispered, the anger mostly gone, desperation entering her voice. "Why would you? How could you?"

He sighed, propping up on his elbows as she sat back on her heels, hands going to her face to wipe away the steady stream of tears. He reached out, heart aching at the pain he'd caused her, running his fingers through her loose hair. Only now, his sister crying her eyes out for him, against him, did he realize how stupid his actions had been. He should have handled his fear better than he had, at least in a different manner.

"You always were the smart one, Tracie, the one with common sense. It was stupid, I shouldn't have done it. Please stop crying…"

"I almost lost my brother," she said brokenly. "My stupid fucking brother. I thought I did, when I saw them carrying you out on the stretcher, blood everywhere, still dripping from your mouth as you vomited unconscious. I just…I didn't know what to do, what to think. I don't remember much except Mom and Dad putting me in the car, talking me down, saying you were okay, that's it."

Craig didn't want to think about it. He barely remembered, shuddered at the thought of the spiders, the maggots, the slugs, the canines and blood everywhere, the haunting words that had been his lifeline through the dizzying hallucinations. He could imagine the shock she had faced, and had no way to make amends for that. Nothing could explain how sorry he was.

The desperation was back. She shook his shoulders, a panicked look in her eyes. "Please, please don't do it again. Please stop the drugs, please _stop_. I don't want to see you like that again."

He took her cold, shaking hands in his, rubbing his thumbs on her palms, a forced smile twitching his cracked lips into assurance. "Tracie, it's a promise," he said softly, eyes sad, knowing in the back of his head it was a lie. Already he was itching for something to kill his nerves, settle his anxiety and stomach, tone the world down and smooth out the edges. But that was something he'd never admit.

She pushed away and stood, whipping her hair behind her shoulders with a nearly smoldering look of dismay. Calculating on whatever thought was going through her mind, she just nodded, reverting back to his watchful urchin of a kid-sister. "I know," she agreed, her smile one of malice. "It won't happen again."

He raised a brow as he pushed himself to his feet, suspicious. The slight edge of her voice, the certainty she held, made him want to question her intentions. How could she be so sure? Unless…no, she couldn't have known. She _couldn't_ know. How in the world could she? And yet…

"What're you talking about, Tracie?"

She turned away, went to settle his terrified guinea pigs, almost seeming to sense the hostile tension that had broken out over the anguish the girl had shown moments prior. Despite himself, he had to laugh; he certainly wasn't the only fucked-up one in the family, obvious by Tracie's rampant bipolar behaviour. Or maybe that was just females. But that still didn't answer his question.

A little firmer. "Tracie."

With her finger jammed between the plastic-coated bars, petting the end of Stripe's nose, a sigh escaped. She seemed like his annoying cancerous infection of a sister, content with his furballs, sunlight streaming over her face, but underneath that was a knowledge that scared him.

"You weren't ready. Anyone could see that if they looked hard enough. But no one did, no one thought that your bursts of temper meant anything, that you running out and disappearing to who-knows-where meant a damn thing. But it did; you weren't ready to face Tweek."

A nervous laugh bled from his lips as he ran a hand through the curling ends of his thick hair, yanking tangles, hardly feeling them as his calm broke. What did she know? "Don't be a douche, you're making this sound really gay. Tweek is just Tweek, I mean Jesus."

"Don't fucking play dumb, Craig _Louis_," she spat, spinning on her heels as she shot him a dangerous glare. "I'm a room away from you, I have to hear you all through the fucking night talking to yourself."

"I don't talk in my sleep."

She threw her hands up, but Tracie was far from done. "Maybe, maybe not, I wouldn't doubt you stay up all goddamn night long running through your paranoid thoughts, as if all day wasn't long enough to put yourself through Hell." She fixed her clover eyes on his face, leaning back against his desk. "You know, Mom and Dad had me rummage through your room while you were in the hospital. See what I found. The stash was flushed, what I found anyway. But-"

His mind whirred. It wasn't the few hundred he lost in the counter-clockwise motion of the porceline god he worried about, because he knew his sister, and she was thorough when she had the opportunity to snoop; he doubted she missed a thing. Which meant she had to have run across the notes he'd written to himself and Tweek over the past few years, the progressive confusion and hurt he'd authored on sleepless nights. Which meant…

"You dirty little bitch," he crooned, voice silky for the anger and frustration he felt out of such an invasion into his thoughts and feelings. "You stupid dyke."

"Get over yourself," she retorted, flashing a middle finger. "You think Tweek really wanted you to get strung out because you're too arrogant to admit-"

"Shut the fuck up."

"-you have a gay little crush?"

"I said shut up."

"Jesus Craig, look at yourself. You've been destroying yourself for, how long now? Mom, Dad, me, Red, your friends, Tweek, none of us want to watch you do this. _No one_. Do you have any idea how many came in and out of the hospital to see you? Worried that an asshole like you might die? We love you, fucking regardless of who you may-"

"_Shut up!_" He didn't need to yell, didn't need to raise his voice, the threat rolled through like currents, hate - hate for himself, hate for his sister knowing, hate for knowing she was absolutely right - more than distinguishable. She stepped back, reminded entirely of the incident where she had broken her wrist due to her brother's anger. Now he was feeling lightheaded, the pulls of tangible neon ribbons tugging him somewhere deep into his subconscious, a feeling that was hard to shake. "Just shut up. I don't want to hear it. Why does everyone insist on making me gay with Tweek? Fucking ay' he's just my friend. Just drop it."

Tracie sighed as she watched his struggle, from the scary boy he'd just been, with a hint of hysteria under it all, to his typical frustrated look, that bordered on the forlorn sadness of a lost puppy, just wanting to be home and loved. And maybe that was true, maybe Craig just needed to be where he wasn't judged, with who would always be at his side.

"I talked to Tweek."

Ivy eyes snapped upright at that as Craig forgot how to breathe. Forgot mere reason as murderous intent dripped through his skull. He reigned the emotions implanted as his own, remembering the brighteyed girl was his sister, and it probably wouldn't look good if he did anything to her. Calmly, with a vicious smile he asked, "You did what?"

Humming under her breath she turned the knob, opening the door, flicking her glance his way with dim intelligence burning behind the visciousness. "I talked to Tweek. I know you, Craig, and I won't let you get hurt. Just think of us for once, please," she said with a final sigh, slipping into the shadows at the stairs to plod down to the rising smell of supper, escaping the rising temper of her brother.

-

On a normal, everyday Friday evening Tweek would have dinner with his parents in their own disjointed fashion, characteristic with Eavan's patient smiling, Richard's longwinded stories that melted into casual extended metaphors, his own jerky spazzing that usually lead to the peas flinging across the room into a ceiling fan or two and pummeling them all. After cleanup, a television show or two, a cup of foaming coffee with biscuits, he would be shipped off to one of his friends' house to spend the night and weekend.

On this Friday, he was curled up under blankets in his room, shivering still despite the warmth, burrowed like a bunny as the sun streamed in through the slotted blinds. He lay staring at the blanket covering his head, too exhausted to consider the possibility of suffocation, his eyes stinging from the effort to bite back tears of frustration, anger, and hurt. He locked his jaw, knowing if a sound escaped his emotion would win and he'd be a hysteric loon lost to depression before anyone knew it. And he couldn't give his Bat King the satisfaction of such a thing.

But it wasn't Curson's fault he felt this way. Far from it, actually. He had been there whispering sweet temptations to rid the world of who was harming him, confronting him. Crooning sweet nothings, singing back the emotion with assurance. And though Tweek could reach up, run a finger across the grinning gash on his cheek, the breach of trust that had been the physical proof that Curson was indeed real, he couldn't remain mad at his demon. Wary, perhaps, but not mad.

No, this was his favourite little redhead's fault, this churning feeling of guilt and betrayal. This was the little girl he had practically grown up with, that had an obsession with glitter and ribbons, that was like a little sister to him if he ever had one. This was all Tracie.

It had happened at recess. Generally there was rarely ever mixing of the big and little kids, with exception of Kyle and his little brother. The big kids kept to their own, the girls sprawled under trees, on benches, the stairs, laughing, giggling, talking, gossiping about the boys, fashion, makeup, the latest trends and events; the boys played actively, roughly, whether it be football or a daring hand of cards. The little ones played rambunctiously on the jungle gym or swings, laughing uproarishly at imaginary situations only a kid could fathom.

So it was strange to watch the breeching of acceptabilty as the young Nommel crossed the boundaries and pulled Tweek uncerimoniously from his friends. He had hide his smile behind the confused look, because this girl still so reminded him of Craig in her commanding attitude and behaviour. In just a few short years she had grown up so much, from the girl that would braid ribbon into his unruly hair, to this specter of her older brother, intelligence gleaming from darkly lit eyes. It was both unnerving and reassuring all the while.

She released her grasp on his wrist near a secluded wall, a barrier from the outside world, turning on her heels to face him. She smiled, a little apologetic, shaking her pigtails back and forth as if warring internally. At last she looked up into his confused face and motioned for him to be at ease.

"Tweek, you're my brother's best friend no matter what he says or the mean things he does. He cares a lot about you. He's just scared of himself and doesn't know how to deal with everything," she took a breath, looking down, indecision and hurt wavering in her eyes. "So he turned to this drugs, he's killing himself, and I don't like it."

The blonde was unsure what to do, had never felt that he could portray the older guardian like the other kids his age, and felt uneasy about Tracie's intentions. While she seemed distraught about the ongoings of her older brother, there was a sly intelligence that had Tweek shifting from foot to foot.

"Well," he started, rubbing his hands together, characteristically like Butters. "I don't either! I-I mean we had our fair share of fights and we fell out for a while there, but I-I don't like seeing Craig hurt or in danger or being stupid."

Tracie nodded, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Intelligence was written across her face, making Tweek wary. "I know, if anyone didn't want Craig hurt, it was you. Despite all the bullshit he put you through, you would be there to the very end for my brother."

The boy bit his lip, a warning light going off in his head, making him body reverberate with tension and worry. She always was perceptive for her age, but what did Tracie know? "He's still my friend, we grew up together, I'll always be there for him," he began carefully, taking a step back. "I-I'm gonna go back to my friends now, okay?"

Before he could turn on his heel and escape, a small hand encircled his wrist in a death grip, pulling him to an immediate halt. "You liked Craig, didn't you? I mean _liked _like."

Tweek froze, his eyes shutting against the question. Of course he did, how couldn't he? Craig had always been there for him, accepted him with open arms despite his quirky behaviour and odd habits. Craig had taken care of him when he fell down and skinned his knee, listened to him when the world hadn't bothered, helped him socialize without fear. Craig had been his hero, his idol, the one person outside of his family and Christophe he knew he couldn't live without…and at first, he didn't think he could. And deep down, he knew his once brotherly, platonic feelings for Craig had escaladed to something romantic in nature.

With a gulped breath, he nodded, waiting for the persecution of the only person he considered a sister.

Behind his back, she smiled sadly, shaking her head, knowing just how unhealthy it was for both of them. She let her hand fall away from him as she spoke. "I know. And he likes you, too…but Craig is Craig. He's too tied up with impressing people and being the best to let himself be happy. You don't know how unnerving it is to hear your big brother cry himself to sleep days at a time because of his own personal indecision."

Tweek's heart jumped to his throat. He always knew Craig cared, but had been unsure of how deeply. But here Tracie was, giving him security and assurance of what he already knew. A small smile formed on his lips. Maybe, maybe something could work out after all…

"But he wasn't ready to see you."

Brows furrowing, heart sinking just slightly, he turned back to face her. "What do you mean?"

"He hadn't come to terms with his feelings, was too confused and when he saw you….everything just went haywire. He broke down in his own fucked up way, he turned inward and did the drugs to escape the feelings, the fact he likes you, the fact he's continuously hurting you, the fact you don't _need_ him anymore…and I think that's what hurt him the most."

"But I-"

She shushed him with a stern look, and fingertips to his chapped lips. "No, Tweek, you don't need Craig like you did. You changed, hardened in the two years you were gone. You learned what you needed to take care of yourself, and I like to think Christophe taught you some of that. You'll always be different, but you'll never need anyone to protect you like that again.

"And Craig hates it, because deep down he knows it's his fault for turning his back on you in the first place. Deep down, he's afraid you won't want him back in your life because you don't need him in it anymore. Seeing you stand up for yourself, having gained friends with the redheaded kid and his crew without Craig, hit him hard, and he turned to the drugs, turned to what would make it not hurt anymore."

"It-it's not my fault," Tweek whispered weakly, his stomach turning in dread, shaking his head against the subtle accusations. His hands tangled in blonde curls, pulling nervously as he took a step away from Tracie, his heart in the pits of his stomach by now. "It's not my fault."

The Nommel girl smiled sadly, looking to the ground. "I know, but he's not ready. You can't be friends with him. Leave him alone, Tweeky. I love you, but I love my brother more and don't want to see him dead over you. Do what's best for Craig and leave him alone."

Tweek had run, turned tail tucked between his legs and run. His friends had left him alone to sink into oblivion, hadn't bothered to question what Tracie had had to say, knowing it'd only be worse to bring it up. Token had offered to have him over for the night, but Tweek mindlessly declined, exhausted with his constant roller-coaster of emotions. Couldn't he be happy, just once, without strings attached, without the world fucking something up? Who else did he have now?

"_You still have me, sweets_," Curson's sadistic purr rang, cutting through the chilling silence. Tweek pulled the blanket from his head poked out of the warmth to see the Batthingit crouched by his bed, head cocked slightly, reserved concern swirling amid the black eyes cut with searing red.

"That's not the same," Tweek pouted, eyes downcast as he drew himself into a sitting position. "You're not the same."

A frown carved into Curson's face at that, yet he shrugged it off; he would be, one day soon. It was best not to dwell. Running the back of his talons across the blonde's cheek he shook his head slow. "_Perhaps not, my sweets, but should one be worth so much anguish?_"

Burying his face in his arms Tweek stared at his feet. Was Craig worth this much pain? Was it worth the amount of anguish he put himself through for the raven-haired boy, time after time, with little to nothing in return? As his eyes filled with tears and fell onto the blankets beneath himself, Tweek knew, of course, that he was.

Without a word, and barely a rustle made, Curson was sitting on the bed and pulled Tweek into his arms, face steely as he ran clawed fingers gently through the blonde's hair of disarray. Soft words Tweek couldn't decipher purred across the demon's tongue, reassuringly, in a sing-song croon that he recognized only as a lullaby. He knew he shouldn't let his guard down, shouldn't trust this figment of his mind – but at that moment, Tweek let himself go and clung desperately to Curson as emotion tore through him.

It was about an hour before the sobs had turned into snotty sniffles and hiccups, another twenty minutes for the whimpering to slow and Tweek's breathing to even out as he fell into slumber. Curson felt the battering turmoil his blonde was going through thudding against his mind, the whispers of Tweek's indecision chipping away at him. Looking down at the boy, face pale, eyes swollen, hair stuck to his cheeks from crying, he considered his role, and if the slight tugging at the corner of his lips meant he was getting too close.

Carefully he unwound Tweek from his waist and slithered out from the bed, pushing the covers up around the boy's shoulders as he did, and caught a glimpse of a photo tucked beneath the array of pillows. Taking it in his claws, he looked down at a candid picture of Craig, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, looking like he had just awoke three years earlier from one of the boys' sleepover parties. Scarlet eyes narrowing ,he tucked the picture into a shirt pocket and faded dismally into the shadows creeping along with sunset, knowing exactly what his next move would be.

_Soon._

-  


All through supper, with his parent's watchful eyes on him, Craig had barely looked up from his plate. He felt his sister watching him, knew she could see the slight tremor of withheld anger, but he said nothing. He cleared the table, eyes on the floor, rinsed dishes, and only then let his baleful glare land on his sibling, channeling the rage with that one look, and retired to bed.

Saturday was no better. Worried about her son, Lydia had enforced a no closed-door policy, which limited Craig's need for privacy while he boiled. He lay on his bed, earbuds hidden under his hat, cranking his Rob Zombie, ignoring each and every time his mother would walk by and peek in to make sure her son was still alive.

It was aggravating. One mistake, one attempt to rid yourself of personal anguish, and they treated you like a felon. Tracie was no better….how could she break his trust? His perfect, obnoxious little shadow; his savior, when he had left Tweek years prior. If it hadn't been for his redheaded sibling, intervening with games, annoying him with glitter and crayons, knowing when he needed her silent presence most, he wasn't sure he would have survived then. When he battled walls with his fists, she was the one to ice his bruised and broken knuckles, keeping his pain a secret. When he drifted aimlessly in his mind, lost at the thought of Tweek with that prick Christophe, she had always snapped him back to reality. When he needed gifts delivered, or notes sent anonomously, she had no problem leaving them wordlessly with the Tweak's. She knew why he was so torn inside, she knew his secret longing of the blonde he had called a best friend…yet she was hurting him more, pushing Tweek away again.

Did she know? She had to – Craig had seen the guilt within her face, her eyes that could never hide how she truly felt. She was afraid for him, afraid to lose him. The redhead was right, he hadn't been ready to see Tweek that day, he hadn't prepared himself enough, and he had done something insane so he wouldn't have to deal with it again. Having survived his brazen attempts at suicide, having fought a bitter fight with himself, Tracie should know. That dealing with Tweek was maddening; to have to admit his feelings to himself, his overwhelming desire to hold onto that lithe blonde and never let go, that knowing it was his fault Tweek had a tougher exterior, that he didn't need a protector. But to push Tweek away after having him within arm's reach again, to not have him in his life at all, was unacceptable, and would drive him to his death faster than being torn and having Tweek there.

He knew what he had to do.

A storm was brewing. He could feel it in his bones, the air static with the pressure building high above. Trees swayed relentlessly in the numbing cold, clouds swirled high above, dancing back and forth to an unwritten song of nature. It seemed that the forest was empty, desolate; the animals had scurried for shelter, leaving the last of the birds fighting against the breeze to return to the safety of their nests and nooks. It was eerie, the leaves rustling and howling of the end the only noise, but he needed to keep going.

Craig pulled his scarf tighter around him, dug his hands into his pockets, and kept moving. He was determined, to get as far away from home without them knowing he had slipped away, and to get to the banks of Starkey pond. His nose ran from the cold, his cheeks burned from the wind, his eyes burned for other reasons, but he wasn't giving up. No matter what thoughts and doubts ate at his mind, he had made the call to Tweek, and he was keeping his word….something he should have done long ago.

_Can we do this? Will he think different of us now?_ Craig gritted his teeth, wiping away the frustrated tears that threatened to give away how afraid he was. He wasn't sure if he could take Tweek not showing up, blowing him off, or writing him away as some suicidal lunatic. Craig slowed, stopped, feeling like he was hit in the gut by an invisible hand as he realized this had to be how Tweek felt when he walked away, when he confided in him about his doctor's visits. He couldn't do it, how could he face Tweek after that; how could he ask forgiveness and understanding, when he had been so careless with those same virtues?

The wind picked up as rain started to fall slowly from the unrelenting sky. Pulling fistfuls of raven hair, Craig choked back a sob, falling to his knees on the hard ground. What was he thinking? He knew he wouldn't survive himself again if Tweek didn't care to come…but how would he know if he had, if he didn't continue on? Would Tweek think it was all a prank, another low-blow by the bully Craig if he turned tail and ran now?

"Craig? Craig, what the Hell?" came the voice of his inner demon, and his angel, seeming unbelieving and at a loss. Looking up, the rain masking his tears, Tweek stood battling the wind, coffee coloured eyes looking down in concern as he huddled under a rain coat, gloved fingers peeking out of the ends. Despite the sinking feeling in his stomach, Craig couldn't help but smirk at how much smarter Tweek had been to dress appropriately for the weather.

"Craig, seriously, it's cold and wet and we're both gonna catch a cold and our deaths and d-die! What is so _important_?" Tweek asked breathlessly, aspirated. But underneath Craig saw concern on his wind-burned face…of what though? Being here, alone, with his greatest torment? How his mental status was, after such a close brush with Death? Or something else?

Without a word Craig pulled Tweek's coat by the front, emitting a yelp from the blonde as he stumbled over Craig and fell, hard. An _ouaff _sounded from his chapped lips, groaning as he pushed himselfover, ready to curse Craig with everything in him. But he didn't have the chance, and despite the swirling concerns floating through the Nommel boy's mind, he pushed Tweek down and held him there with his lips.

His heart raced, as wind and rain and emotion tore at him. He was glad for the rain, so Tweek didn't know tears were falling onto his face while he kissed the blonde, slow at first, waiting, waiting to be pushed away as fear crept on. So it was a surprise when small, awkward hands grabbed his hair and held his face, and the kiss was returned with overwhelming passion. And it stopped his heart completely, shattering his confidence when, roughly, he was pushed back onto his rear in the mud, a red faced Tweek glaring.

And he lost it. Emotion melted into anger as the hate for Tracie, hate for himself, hate for the entire situation crept on A snarl curling his trembling lips, green eyes aflame, he spit, "What, not good enough for you now?"

Before Tweek could reply Craig was on his feet, turning, running, the edges of his vision blurred as the anger fought to win control over the despair. He should have known better. He should have—

He hit the ground, groaning at the loss of breath from the weight on top of him. Without thinking, he rolled, flipping the boy that had tackled him off, pushing him away as he saw red at the ache in his ribs and the stinging of his skinned chin, having hit the cold, hard dirt. Tweek faired no better at his outburst, his hat lost on the ground, hair streaming in wet streaks down his face, hand at the back of his head that had met a tree.

"GodDAMNIT Craig, what the fuck do you even think you're doing? Or do you not stop and think for a fucking second?" he screamed.

"I think this was a big fucking mistake," he snarled in return, voice cracking at the implications of being turned away. And then it hit him, that Tweek had tried stopping him. Choking back the anger, swallowing his pride, he crawled towards Tweek, hating the uncertainty and fear that seemed to crop up in the blonde's eyes. Spitting blood to the ground from the tackle, angry at himself he lashed out, feeling his fist connect solidly, painfully, with the tree behind Tweek. Glancing up into those wide eyes he asked, "Why? Why did you stop me, Tweekers? Why do we go round and round? Why do we hurt each other?"

Tweek released the breath he was holding, looking down, away from those haunted eyes. "I don't know, Craig. Some days, it's like we're on the same page. Some days, I swear you over think everything. Somedays, it's hard to know you don't hate me. And I wonder, is it m-me? Did I do this to us? You know I love you—"

_I love you_. Through the fog of the drugs and sterilized hospital room, through the insanity that ate away at his mind, he remembered now, the lost little blonde at his bedside giving him his ultimatum, admitting everything.

"I'm terrible to you. I'm terrible for you."

"Cut the shit," Tweek said, cutting him off. "I think you should give me the benefit of the doubt of knowing what's good and what's not for me. Of making my own choices. Quit playing bad guy. I know how I feel, I know what I want. You are the one that doesn't."

Craig let his gaze fall; he wasn't ready for this, as steely as he had made his resolve, he just wasn't ready. He was still weak, mentally and emotionally, from everything in the last week to deal with this in a sound state. All traces of anger had vanished, and now the only thing left was the emotional turmoil he continued to find himself in. For the first time, he let Tweek see how much it hurt him, and he stopped hiding behind the cocky, arrogant persona he portrayed in the public eye. This time, there was no mistaking the tears as they swelled and fell as he looked up.

"Tweek…I need you," he broke, hiding his face in his hands as he shook, feeling empty and distant. Tweek gaped, unsure how to respond; he had never seen Craig like this, not even when his very first guinea pig had died.

"I don't want to hurt you anymore. I don't want to be hurt by you. I can't breathe, I can't sleep, knowing the awful things I've done to you. I want to scream by how confused you make me. I don't know whether I want to beat the piss out of you, or how you and never let go. I don't know how to cope when you aren't around. I want you to drown in this with me, I want you to know how I feel, and I don't want you to hurt because of me."

Craig peeled back the sleeve of his jacket and shirt to expose the deep, jagged scars on his arm. Every sleepless, pain-filled night that he had sat up, carving into himself to bleed the hurt away. To bleed the _gay_ away. To hurt himself, knowing that he had hurt Tweek by his own cutting remarks. Thinking, just an inch longer, just a bit deeper, and it would all go away. But he had always woken in the morning with scabs, a sore arm, and no redemption.

"Damnit Craig, damnit, damnit, damnit. Why would you do that to yourself? Don't you know, seeing that hurts me?"

Lightning flashed over head, followed by a thunderous crack that deafened them both. Craig let his sleeve fall back to hide his shame. "Stop talking. Stop judging me."

Exsperated Tweek threw his hands in the air. "We're going to die out here. We're gonna get struck by lightning. We're gonna—"

"Stop. Talking."

"What do you want form me?"

Craig shook his head, rain flying form his hair as he stood, face toward the sky. It was a loaded question, and he was tired of everything already. He was emotionally exhausted. He didn't cry like this, he wasn't a pussy, but he felt so weak in Tweek's graces. He turned back to the blonde, still sitting on the ground, looking at him pleadingly as the rain pummeled them both.

"I need you to need me. I need you to need me like I need you. I need you to shut up and stop talking about stupid shit I don't give a damn about. I need you to realize that I'm so deep in this there's no getting out. I need you to know I love you."

_Oh, shit. I didn't mean to say that_. _Too late now. _

Tweek just stared, shocked. Was Craig really admitted this to him? Was he done making his life Hell, both of their lives Hell by his homophobic attitude? Slowly he got to his feet, not sure whether to run before Craig shrugged it off and decided this was too gay, or to stay and weather this emotional storm with him.

"Really?"

Tweek could tell how that went over with him when he whirled on his heels and struck the nearest tree with his already bleeding fist. Anger again. Craig spit and sputtered, pulling his hair in disbelief. "No, Tweek, I'm totally fucking joshing you. You have no idea. None. You've driven me mad for years by the things I want to do to you. No one else gets under my skin the way you do. No one. I just—"

"Prove it," Tweek taunted, but the uncertainty was written by the tremble. He got to his feet as well and pushed Craig back against the tree with shaking hands, all thoughts of death and illness gone. "Prove it to me, Craig. Show me."

That was invitation enough for him. He grabbed Tweek's coat and pulled him roughly against his body, his caramel coffee scent going straight to his head. Despite the wet clothes between them it was intoxicating feeling Tweek's lithe body against his own, as his mouth found Tweek's in a hard kiss, proving every inch of desire to him with his tongue.

Until voices over the storm had them apart in an instant.

-

"Yes, Ms. Nommel, Craig is here with us – no, no, don't worry about coming to get him, we can keep an eye on him. No, don't worry, I'm being serious, there's no need for you to risk this nasty storm, he will be fine for the night with us, and we'll run by in the morning for his school belongings. Lydia, _please_, it's no trouble, he's like a son to us too, we'll take good care of him," Eavan sighed into the phone, knowing her worry was justified, but knowing for some reason the boys needed to be with each other for the night. "Yes, seven-o-clock on the dot we'll be by. Have a good night, and stay warm tonight, it's suppose to get real nasty. Good night, Lydia, say hi to Thomas for me."

Eavan hung the receiver up with a sigh, pushing her frizzy hair behind her ears as she turned to look at the sopping boys sitting at the kitchen table, both looking a little flustered and hopeful. She crossed her arms, and both averted glances, knowing the 'mom' look in an instant.

"What on earth did you think you two were doing, going out in that storm? And Craig, why did you sneak out?"

He shrugged, looking nervous, stripped down to his shirt and boxers. "I don't know, I just felt….stifled in my house. I had to get out, I had to be somewhere no one was watching."

She could understand that, knowing he had been under constant scruntity from his mother since the…incident. She turned her gaze on her fidgeting son, whom faired a little better, having had a raincoat on. "What about you, mister?"

"I—"

"It was my fault," Craig intervened. "I called. I needed someone that wouldn't judge me to talk to. You're son is an amazing friend for coming out, and I'm sorry."

She nodded. "So why does it look like you two were fighting?"

Again, the nervous glances and fidgeting. "We weren't. Just tripped. Ground got slippery."

She knew excuses when she heard them, having been a kid herself at one point in time, and having raised the boys together, but she wasn't going to pry. They would both try to protect each other and end up stumbling into a bigger lie, and honestly, scrapes and bruises were nothing to worry over. With a sigh she waved them off. "Go shower and warm up, both of you, I'll make some cocoa. You know where the towels are, Craig. Off you go."

As the boys retreated, Eavan fell heavily into one of the straight-backed chairs at the kitchen table with a sigh. She knew how rough it had to be for the boys to come into contact with each other after so long, to be forced into a situation neither were ready for. But it seemed that some tension hung between them, some veiled line that neither were willing to cross. She hurt for both of them, hurt because there was very little she could do to ease their heavy hearts. She hurt, because she knew, had seen the interaction of furious turmoil that spilled from them both in the storm, a storm personified by their own emotions. She hurt, because she didn't know how to make it easier for them both to love each other without worry.

Laying her head on the table, she cried.

-

They were ushered to bed with cups of fluffy cocoa topped in marshmellows. Craig, being taller than Tweek, borrowed a pair of fleece pajama pants from Richard, and threw on one of Eavan's long-sleeved shirts. Hair in a curling disarray, leaning solidly against the window, knees tucked under his chin, he looked forlorn, and lost. The storm continued to rage outside, pelting down snow and slush as the temperatures dropped drastically with the sun having set behind the mountaintops. A soft smile curved over his lips in humor of the situation, that the weather so perfectly mirrored his own demeanor.

Tweek, meanwhile, sipped on his cocoa as he sat cross-legged at his desk, casting glances Craig's direction while he absentmindedly doodled. The air could be cut with a knife from thickening tension, each not knowing what to say, or how to even begin a conversation. It was far different from when they were carefree kids in the heyday of sleepovers.

Flicking his gaze Tweek's direction, Craig smiled. "Still afraid of what could be on the floor, huh?" he asked, nodding towards Tweek's raised feet.

"W-well, yeah. Some things stay the same, y'know," he squeaked in reply, dropping the pencil in his hand to the desk and turning to face his ex bestfriend. "I guess, not us though."

The raven-haired boy laughed, the sound the same familiar purr it had always been. Well, that was something at least. "No, I guess not us, Tweeky. Wanna talk about it?"

Unsure of the correct answer, Tweek nodded slowly. Here, in this familiar place where very little had changed over the years, he seemed more at ease, less prone to outburst like the forest. Here, maybe Tweek could get some answers. "I think, maybe we should."

Craig nodded in acknowledgement, grabbed his cocoa off the night stand, threw a blanket across his lap, and settled in for the long haul. He flicked his gaze in the direction of a few stuffed toys on Tweek's well-kempt bed. Coffee-colored eyes followed where he was looking, and fell on a worn mole toy. "Did you love him?" Craig asked, voice mild and even, but his face told otherwise.

Tweek shrugged, running his trembling hand through his hair. "Yes, no, I mean, I did—but in a different way. Christophe came into my life when I needed someone understanding, someone different like me, that couldn't judge. He was my stability when no one else was there." Keeping his eyes on Craig, he saw the pain flash across his face, that he tried to hide by turning to gaze into the blackness outside the window. "Christophe was a good friend. He is a good friend, and I miss him, a lot. But he was just my friend. He isn't like you."

A nod. "He didn't force you to be homeschooled because of the shitty things he said, and did, to you."

Blonde locks flew as he shook his head vigorously. "No, Craig, you weren't the reason. I mean…it was coincidence. Mom had talked with the admin at school, and everyone agreed, since I had so many doctor's trips and missed so much school, it would be better to be homeschooled. This way, no one had to worry what effects the medication I was bounced around on may do to me."

Craig took that in. Was he lying? No, Tweek wouldn't lie, he was a terrible liar and knew it. So it wasn't his fault, but…."But it wasn't easy, because of me."

That, Tweek looked at the floor for. He wouldn't, couldn't lie to Craig. This was the time to put everything on the table; he had to be completely honest. "You're right, it wasn't. I had one friend at that time. I felt like no one cared. That, after everything, I didn't mean anything. It was hard, because so often I missed you and the guys. So often, I would find myself hoping someone would come by. But no one ever did. But what's done is done. How was it on you?"

Craig snorted back a sarcastic laugh as he motioned to his arm that adorned the scars Tweek had seen earlier. He sipped his cocoa, trying to steady his hands as he thought about it. "No, it wasn't easy for me. With the guys, it wasn't so bad—I always kinda looked around for you, because it felt uneven ,just being us three. But when I was alone, I went crazy. I found myself dialing your number and hanging up. Coming by the house, and running before I got to the door. I found myself sending Tracie by to make sure you were still alive. At night, I wouldn't sleep, thinking about the wrong I did you, how much I missed you." He stopped, turning his diamond-like stare on the unnerved blonde. It was then he noticed Craig's lip was bleeding from having been bit as he thought to himself. "But I was too much of a pussy to admit it, I was too much of a pussy to fix it. And it haunted me."

They were getting somewhere, and Tweek continued to push, because he knew he may never get the chance again. "Why were you so shocked to see me on the bus then?"

Again, that coy laugh, like the answer was obvious. "Tweek, you just don't get it. I knew you'd be there, I tried preparing myself with mental exercises and shit, but the moment you stepped on that bus it was like being sucker punched by years of shame and guilt. It was like seeing my other half for the first time in ages, and not knowing what to do. I hated you for making me feel that way, so vulnerable, when you weren't. I hated that I wanted to hurt you for being there. Most of all, I hated that everyone else had to be there as well."

Tweek took that in and tried to decipher it. He understood, but he couldn't wrap his mind around it. That a boy that was so cruel, that continued to push him away, could be so willing to talk now. "Why did you call me today?"

"Tracie," Craig said in bitter disgust, remembering why, and trying to stamp down the anger he felt. "She told me she talked to you. And I thought, and I realized, that I would rather be torn and confused and unsure about everything, then have you ignore me and practically not exist again. It almost killed me once, I wasn't going to let it happen again."

Getting cold at his desk, Tweek tiptoed to his bed and jumped in at the last moment, to avoid any monsters that may drag him deep under the bed. He wrapped up in a blanket as he pondered. This Craig was more like his old Craig, but different, and he wasn't sure whether he liked it or not. Fiddling with the dogtags around his neck, he sighed. "Why do you push me away, then? Why do you constantly hurt me, Craig?"

Anger at being on blast, he expected, but Tweek wasn't ready for Craig to sink in on himself and wring at his hair, or the desperation and confusion that seemed to cross his face. "I don't want to. I just, I don't want to be _that_ guy, Tweek?"

"What guy Craig?"

"The gay guy!" he exclaimed, hiding his face all the while. "I was raised to know it's wrong. That we are sinners and are going to Hell. I have Red….and I care for her, but she doesn't drive me to the brink of madness like you. It's thrilling, it's intoxicating, what you do to me without even trying. Your crazy hair, your crazy ramblings, those eyes like melted caramel, the ever-present bitter smell of coffee on you." He unfurled his fist, drove it into a clover-shaped pillow, gritting his teeth as the words fell off his tongue. Without thinking, he threw the blanket off his lap and let his gaze fall downwards. "Do you see this? Just talking about it, talking about _you_ is making my body react this way," he said, emphasizing his lower-region.

Tweek averted his gaze, his cheeks flushing furiously at the implication. He wouldn't let Craig change the subject. "So you're ashamed of me," he stated, voice cracking from his own emotion.

The Nommel boy angrily made his way to the bed and pushed Tweek back against the wall by his shoulders and he knelt over him. The look in his eyes was fury, steeped in lust and something more. "Does it look like I'm ashamed of you, Tweekers?"

When he still refused to look, Craig took his hand and placed it where he burned the most. Tweek squeeked, face now a steady shade of scarlet, heart pounding in his ears, breathing hitched. But he wasn't going to let Craig daunt him. "Maybe not here where you're comfortable, but, but out in public, where our friends are….yes, Craig, you're ashamed\."

Thankfully for Tweek, he pulled away and sat as far as possible while remaining on the bed, looking torn once more. His hands fell heavy in his lap, and Tweek realized there were tears now. "I wish I wasn't," he said, slowly, voice unsure of itself. "But you're right. I'm not ready to admit it to anyone. I finally admitted it to you, isn't that enough for now?"

Tweek heard the plea and carefully wiped Craig's emotion away, nodding slightly. How could he ask anything else of his friend? He had made progress so far, anything more would be rushing, and may hurt him in the end. He placed his hand over Craig's, entwining their fingers with a small smile. "It's enough, Craig. You know my condition, though. You know who you have to tell."

He nodded while looking at his breathtaking blonde – _his _blonde, a better person than he ever could be, and was amazed that he could forgive and forget so easily, that no matter what he put him through, Tweek always swept it under the rug and muddled through. Without thinking, he pulled Tweek into a kiss, unsure at first, until a soft moan had him nibbling those cocoa-flavored lips. He pushed Tweek back on the bed with one motion, his shirt coming off with another. Tweek squealed, the flush creepy back up his face at the sly, lusty look Craig gave him.

"What are you _doing_?" he hissed quietly, knowing any minute his mother or father would burst in for humilities sake.

Craig merely pinned his hands above his head and kissed him again, this time a little rougher, the unrestrained emotion flowing from his trembling form. He kissed and nibbled down Tweek's jawline, ignoring the squeaks of uncertainty and whispered, "You asked me to prove I need you. Well listen up, Tweekers boy—" he ground himself against Tweek, emitting a small groan from the body beneath him "—I _need_ you."

"I—I don't know," Tweek protested not trusting himself as Craig licked and kissed his neck, one hand releasing his own to train to the buttons of his night shirt. "I—I've never done this."

"So tell me to stop and I will. But I need to know or I'm going to go crazy, Tweek. Do you need me too?"

Tweek pushed him back, laying his hands against his chest, nervousness making them shake uncontrollably. He had fooled around with Craig before in the bathroom, this was no different, right? His answer was a chaste kiss and entwined fingers that would turn into bitten pillows and muffled moans deep into the night.

-

Wind howling outside, snow falling in a flurry beyond the window, air thick with fulfilled passion, crimson eyes watched the lovers sleep curled around each other. Each boy with his own chosen path, each boy with his own unique quirks and hidden demons. Each boy, at ease in rest for the first time in a very long while. But that would not always be the case, given time, and actions played by a skilled puppeteer. Pointed teeth flashed menacingly from the shadows that hid bad intentions. For now they could enjoy each other, but come morning, he knew as he watched the tangled skeins of their internal thoughts, it would all change.

* * *

A/N: What the fucckkkkk? I'm updating? Whatttttttt? Couple of things:  
1) this is short and awkward, I know. I was trying to motivate myself to start finishing this story, which is harder then it sounds. Also, I had to scrap the original idea because it was too childish (six years later) and do something that would get the ball rolling.  
2) It has been six years, if some of the character detail is off (eye color, name spellings, blahblahblah) don't blame me.  
3) Uh...sorry it's been so long? I look when it was last updated (06) and here it is, 2012...whoops. Life gets in the way. I'm no longer a highschool student with extra time; I work fulltime, am a fulltime nursing student, and have a toddler running around destroying things. The fact I even got this chapter out is a miracle made by coffee and energy drinks. So...don't expect updates, but I'll try. Working this chapter out got me mildly motivated to try getting through it, 'cuz boy, there is still a huge wild ride that's gonna go down in this here biznatch.

Until next time, Corrie out


	10. 2 4 Amour

**Note: ** This chapter gets more rated n17 than anything previous. The warning had been made.

* * *

2.4 Admittance of Undenied Amour

**a-mour**

1._ a love affair_

2. illicit or secret love affair

When one pawn is moved in a game of chess, sometimes, the fate can be decided. Sometimes, pawns establish agendas of their own, and despite gravitutity destroying the fragility of the chalice, poised gingerly above the fray, the physics of the world often unsets the stability people function around for day-to-day living.

* * *

Waiting seemed to be the worst part. Counting each minute that past in anticipation since the storm had broke and the calm preceded. A chilled wind followed, mirroring how Tweek felt since Craig had left that night. Anxiety had been immediate as he darted glances to his parents that morning, hoping they did not know, but that tempered to a bone-chilling cold as the day progressed and it seemed nothing had changed.

Days blurred together, spotted with small flares of anger and defeat as long, freckled fingers entwined with small, girlish ones painted pink. At each shy look passed between the couple, at each lunch time recess Craig spent with his hands on _her _hips, he lost it a little more. He should have known better, Craig forever would be the ultimate manipulator, getting what he wanted only when he wanted it, not caring about the torment left in his wake. He should have known trusting those pitiful, glowing green eyes full of lust had been foolish. How many times had his friend backed away out of shame, how many times had he lied?

He should have known nothing changed in the eyes of Craig Nommel.

Every day, Tweek pretended to be alright. Every day, he swallowed his emotions like scalding coffee as he got ready for school, wiped away the wetness that streaked down his cheeks, and boxed away any signs of breaking up on the inside. Every day, he boarded the bus, sat next to Craig, and warred with the idea of slamming his head into the bus window as he chatted with his friends about their nights and homework problems that particularly gave them difficulty. Every day, the nail drove a little deeper that he would never be anything more than a friend, never more than one night of arousal.

And every day, he realized it was harder to hate the one person he loved more than anything else than quietly suffer. Each day Red, blushing a pretty shade of pink, joined them for lunch and held Craig's hand, it felt like needles gushing through his veins. Each day she hugged Tweek goodbye and included him into her group of friends, he wanted to dig his grave and die. It was no wonder the black-haired boy had chosen her as his girlfriend; she was sweet, considerate, intelligent, and managed to know when was appropriate to join them, and when she should be with her girlfriends. But at every kiss Craig delivered to her, every murmured whisper in her ear, the blonde found it harder to keep composure.

But he still couldn't hate Craig. He tried desperately, cursing, spitting his name, drawing pictures and destroying them, cutting every image of them together into tiny shreds, but at the end of it all he could do was cry until there was nothing but an aching numbness left. Through it all, his scarlet-eyed shadow watched and purred sweet temptations, but even that couldn't remedy the despair Tweek felt. Because he didn't know how to be a friend to someone that continuously hurt him, he didn't know how to be _just _a friend to someone that meant so much more, and he had thought felt it too.

Weeks past, and the weather chilled as leaves fell in the wind, leaving skeletons of the trees that lined the small town. October was a short week away, leaving the kids pondering what "grown up" kids do on a night like Halloween. It was a lunch without Red hovering near that Token announced a Halloween party would be occurring at his house this year. Sitting on the back steps they excitedly discussed the possibilities.

"Maybe Bebe and I will do a couples costume! Like Grease, she'd look cute in one of those poodle skirts," Clyde said with a grin, wagging his bushy eyebrows as he snacked on a bag of Cheesy Poofs.

Craig inclinded his head as a wicked smile erupted on chapped lips. "Maybe we could all do a Grease theme. I think Tweekers over here would also work a poodle skirt well."

Tweek barely heard it as Token nudged his shoulder with a laugh. He looked up at those mischevious green eyes that made him shudder and shake his head back and forth.

"N-n-no I don't think so," he managed weakly, hating the pang of emotion that welled up. Why did Craig have to say things that contradicted how he acted with Red around? Why did he have to give him those looks that almost, _almost_ made the blonde think he might actually care?

This time Clyde nudged him. "Oh come on Tweek! Team player! Some lipstick, smooth that hair of yours down, you might even match Bebe for cuteness."

A hum of agreement as Craig gave him a once-over. "Mm, you would be a pretty girl."

Tweek shot him a look of anger as, nails driving into his palms as he shook with the turmoil that had been eating at him. Without thinking he spat, "That'd make you happy, wouldn't it?" Before he could register Craig's shocked look, he turned tail and ran up the steps and back inside, leaving the others in questionable silence behind.

_Shit_. Why had he said that? Ducking into an empty alcove he slammed his shaking fists into the wall and leaned his head against the cold concrete. He hated that he seemed to have no control over himself. But how true had the comment been? If Tweek was a girl, maybe Craig wouldn't be so ashamed of him. A feeble laugh escaped him as he thought back years prior to when things were simpler, when they were best friends without conditions, before everything got confusing and bad between them.

They had been in the bathtub after a grueling game of spacemen, bargaining each other with questions that had to be answered. He remembered it like the back of his hand, as, bubbles running down his face he had asked, _"Would you still like me if I was a girl?" _

Craig had balked, a struggle written across his face at the question. At the time, Tweek thought he wouldn't want to be his friend if he were a girl, but now, he thought maybe Craig would have preferred it that way, because his own emotions would have made more sense. Craig had just shaken his head and said, "_I don't know, it'd be different if you were a girl. I don't know what'd I do, okay?" _That had been one of their last conversations before everything went to Hell in a handbasket. What irony.

"Tweek?" his voice sounded over his shoulder, startling him, but he didn't turn around, didn't know if he could face Craig right now.

"What?" he asked blandly, trying, desperately, to keep his voice in check, emotions reigned in.

Craig reached out to touch him, but thought better of it. He licked his lips, feeling uncertain and lost; he rarely saw Tweek like this, and it tore at him, knowing he was the cause of this feeble Tweek, tore at him so much he had to hide new scabs across his wrist. "What was that about?"

"Forget about it."

"No."

"Go away. I don't need you," Tweek forced out as tears burned at his eyes, hoping, just once, Craig would back off.

"I know," Craig whispered dejectedly, rubbing at his wrist. "But I need you."

That did it. Tweek whirled around and shoved Craig away, heat evident in those chocolate eyes. "No you don't! If you did, you wouldn't fucking lie to me! If you did, you wouldn't be so goddamned _ashamed_! You don't need me any more than I should need you!"

Anger flared in Craig's own eyes as his face contorted. Tweek flinched back as a deadly calm took over Craig, knowing his luck may have just ran out. He pushed Tweek back into the wall, a small sound of pain groaning from him as his head connected against the concrete that he found cool solace in just a few moments ago.

"Damnit, Tweek, _shut up_! You don't know a fucking thing, do you? You don't know how hard this is for me—"

"For you? What about me?" Tweek implored, holding his aching head, having a hard time fighting the tears back now. "You think this is just fun and games over here in Crazytown? Get the fuck out of here, Craig."

"You asked what I'd do if you were a girl years ago; you think I want you that way? I didn't give you an answer then. Want the answer now? We wouldn't be friends then, Tweek. We wouldn't be anything. I don't want you to have tits and a pussy any more than you want me to be with Red," he said slowly, deadly, glaring down at Tweek. At the guilty look elicited from the blonde he smirked. "You think I haven't noticed? Do you forget we're best friends? That I know you more than you may know yourself? That I really wouldn't notice the lame attempt at hate?"

Tweek's face burned with embarrassment – he should have known. Craig always was inquisitive, always found it fun to people watch and observe those around him. Craig always could tell how he was feeling. "Then why lie to me if nothing was going to change?"

Craig shrugged, fighting back his own internal war. "I lied to protect you, I lied to protect us."

Between anger, hurt, denial, rejection, and intense desire Tweek found himself, but this time, anger won. He lashed out, curled fist slamming into Craig's mouth. Craig stumbled back as he bit through his lip, stinging pain blurring his vision momentarily. His hand wiped blood away as red tinted his vision as Tweek said, "The only thing you're protecting is your reputation. You had no intention to break up with Red, you just used me."

Craig spit blood onto the scuffed linoleum, his jaw and lip throbbing. His mind flashed to their fight in third grade, surprised at how such a twitching, paranoid person could pack that kind of aggression. He shrugged, pain cutting as he saw the tears streaking down Tweek's ruddy face, but he ignored it. "Yeah? Well, fuck you then."

"Big words, Craig. Nothing I haven't heard from you before. I think, at this point, I'd be more shocked if you admitted you had feelings," Tweek scoffed. It seemed, that was Craig's trigger, as the next thing he remembered was Kyle pulling Craig off of him, and them both being sent separately to the clinic and detention. All the while he questioned why that was what fed Craig's emotion.

...

Nothing changed between them after three days of in school suspension, countless questions between their friends, and silence on their own ends of the turmoil. Friday evening Tweek sat at the kitchen table, head in his hands as he fought a headache that had been nagging the back of his senses since his head slammed into the wall by Craig's shove, while his mother idly hummed Irish folklore songs as she busied herself making supper. The wind howled outside, making the battle songs and tales of woe wordlessly hummed a tad eerie and even more miserable. It fit his mood perfect, dark and dreary since the fight that pushed each to their limits.

Craig was a fool; Tweek was a fool. Why was it the Nommel boy thought he could make Tweek wait by anxiously for him to be ready to admit himself to everyone? Why did it tear at the blonde that Craig was still so indecisive, that it seemed Craig still cared? Sometimes, Tweek wished he didn't, wished that Craig would forget it all and not say cryptic things, act so feverishly confused. Sometimes, he wished Craig knew just how bad it hurt him to be ignored, to be pushed to the breaking point, to be forgotten.

Tweek sighed into the steaming cup of coffee that was placed before him, the foam that had been so cleverly crafted into a heart dissipating into a ruin. _How fitting_, he thought with a small laugh.

"Honey, what's wrong?" Eavan finally asked as she dried her hands on a hand towel decorated with ivy and flowers. She pulled one of the bar stools out and sat across from him, a frown painted on nude-glossed lips. "You've been down. Is everything alright?"

He gave a quick nod, damp hair from his shower slapping him in the face. "Yeah Mom, I'm okay. Just tired. It's been exhausting."

She leaned back in her chair, knowing better as she offered him a cookie from the platter in the center of the table. "What's going on with you and Craig? You guys don't often get into physical fights."

"I don't know, he said something that made me angry, maybe my meds aren't working anymore," he said, taking the offered oatmeal cookie and nibbling on it, keeping his eyes diverted from that knowing motherly gaze. He knew she wouldn't believe him, because he knew she knew he had stopped taking his meds again, but he didn't want to talk about it. Instead, he asked, "Mom, why do people lie?"

She cocked her head in concern and pushed her curls behind her ears as she pondered the appropriate response. "Well, dear, some people lie to get out of trouble and to protect themselves. Others lie to protect other people. Some people lie to make someone feel better, like when I tell your father his lemonaide is fine, when I really would rather poor it down the toilet because it's way too sour." Tweek smiled at that, looking up for the first time since she sat down. "But mostly, I think people lie because they're afraid of the truth and who may find out about the truth."

Tweek thought about it as he sipped on his coffee, a considering look taking over his expression. That would explain it, not that Tweek hadn't already known that Craig was afraid to admit the truth to anyone. He himself had admitted that, by asking him if it had been enough that he finally told Tweek his feelings. "That makes sense," he finally said.

Eavan smiled as she reached out and petted his hair, a burst of warmth at seeing her son happy, even for a mere moment. She considered, then, how she was going to approach him about Craig. "Honey, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?"

Cocking his head, so much like herself, a puzzled look in those caramel colored eyes he shook his head. "N-no. You know you can ask me anything, Mom."

"Did you and Craig have a fight about a girl?"

Eavan felt bad, knowing she was setting him up, when he choked on his coffee and started coughing. Eyes watery and eyes round in shock he shook his head vigorously, a small tremor shaking his body. "Oh my GOD Mom! N-n-no! We didn't fight about a _girl_! Gyah! Why would you even think that?!"

She had to hide her smile at his overreaction to such a question, and wondered which girl may be on his mind that he would put himself into a tizzy over. "Well, Tweek darling, most boys your age do notice girls and may fight over them, especially such good friends like you and Craig."

Again, he shook his head wildly. "I don't like girls, Mom."

Butterflies fluttering in her stomach, nerves a mess, she knew now was the moment to bring up the question that had been idly prodding in the back of her mind. "Oh, well, Tweek….do you like Craig?"

Tweek's face burned red as his eyes widened at the implication. His gaze darted back and forth like an animal trying to find a way to escape the predator, and he swallowed hard. "I—n-n-no…Mom w-w-hat, are you calling me g-gay?"

She wanted to wrap him up and tell him it was okay, wanted to take the pained, embarrassed look off of her baby's face, but she had to press. "I didn't say that, did I? I asked if you liked Craig. I mean it's natural to have feelings for the people you are around most, you know."

"I. Don't. Like. Craig," he said dejectedly, putting emphasis between each word. "That's gross. That's a sin. Do you think I'm a sinner?"

Folding her arms over her chest, an eyebrow raised she merely asked, "Why are you lying to me, honey?"

He stopped dead at that. His heart raced, blood pounded in his ears as his mouth moved wordlessly. He left lightheaded. How did she possibly know? How could she? But he knew she did, and he could see it in those intelligent eyes of hers. "H—how?"

"The night of the storm, when Craig stayed over, I heard you two fighting. While Craig is like a son to me after everything, those few years he never came by, I wanted to slap some sense into him, I didn't understand why he stayed away. But that night, I understood how hard it is for him, and some of what influences his choices."

By then, the shocked look had turned to despair as Tweek hid his face. His ears burned in embarrassment. "Are you ashamed of me, too?" he asked brokenly.

Without a thought Eavan was around the table, pulled his damp head to her chest in a threateningly tight hug. "Baby, I could never be ashamed of you. Why would you think that?"

"He is," he whispered, voice cracking as the tears fell. She kissed his head gingerly, her heart breaking for her fragile little boy.

"Tweek honey, I don't think Craig is ashamed of you. I think he's battling with himself inside about what he thinks is right. You have to remember, Craig comes from a family that goes to church every Sunday and is taught by the book that anything not considered normal is considered a sin. It has to be hard on him having that kind of pressure on him. He'll come around, he seems to really care, even though he has a tough time admitting it."

Eavan had questioned herself since Dr. Rizzo had mentioned Tweek may have an attraction toward Craig, had questioned how she would feel when the topic finally came up. Now, with her son grasping the front of her shirt and wiping his nose on her, she realized gender didn't matter, heart ache was heart ache and all she wanted was to make Tweek feel better about his troubles.

"I don't know," he said, pulling away to wipe his eyes. "He's dating a girl."

Well, that was something she didn't know. Still, she wouldn't let that detail get in the way. "What's love without a little stepping stone in the way? Cheer up, baby. You want my honest opinion?" A small nod. "If he loved her, he wouldn't have such strife with you. I know Craig, darling, and I saw the how much he hurt for you. I know it probably doesn't feel good to see him with her, but you have to give him the time he needs. He's not going to stop loving you, just like I won't. So don't worry."

He smiled weakly as he wiped his flowing nose on his sleeve. "Really?"

"Yuppers!"

Nervously he looked toward the door, and she knew what he was going to say would pain her. "Don't tell Dad, okay? H-he isn't as nice as you. H-he would be ashamed." As much as Eavan wanted to deny the claim, all she could do was extended her pinky in agreement as she mentally filed away the need to talk to Richard. With that she sent him upstairs with coffee and cookies in hand and watched the grey clouds roll in out the window, hoping everything really did turn out okay, and worried how Craig was handling everything.

...

Craig thought he was finally sorting everything out within himself, until _he_ showed up.

It was a few weeks before the scheduled Halloween party, and everyone had figured out just what they were doing. Clyde and Bebe were sticking with the Grease themed idea, Token had bought a Hollywood makeup artist to turn him into a Walking Dead zombie, Tweek was undecided, and Red had begged him to be Edward Cullen out of Twilight fame. He fought with himself whether he wanted to do a couple's costume, or if he even wanted to go with Red in the first place; not that he didn't like her, but as he spent his nights awake and thinking, he was coming closer to a conclusion date with her to satisfy his need to be with Tweek. For the first time in a very long time his wrists were completely healed to pink scars that would fade, his scalp didn't ache from constantly pulling his hair in consideration, and anger didn't pulse in his veins at himself. He felt _okay_ about his decision, okay with the thought of pushing his blonde up against the lockers and kissing him hard while everyone else watched in astonishment.

_His_ blonde.

Even sitting at the lunch table with his arm idly thrown over Red's slim shoulders as she chatted away with Clyde, he couldn't control the blood that coursed lower at the thought of his tongue tasting coffee on Tweek's lips, hands sliding under one of his ridiculous cat sweaters, across his slender hips and flat stomach, higher to tease those small pale buds on Tweek's chest. He ground his fingers into his leg, hoping the pain may redirect his thoughts elsewhere, but instead he found himself watching Tweek as he sipped on his packed thermos of coffee, mind flashing back to the night of the storm and having the blonde's lips kissing his pale, freckled stomach, lower, lower, low—

"Luffins, I asked you a question. Pay attention, retard," Clyde scoffed, kicking him under the table. Craig jumped, realizing they were all starting at him.

"Yeah, and what was that?"

"How are you going to get vampire eyes for your costume?"

He shrugged, wanting to strangle Clyde for asking such an idiotic question that drew him from his thoughts. "I dunno, contacts maybe you shitbrick?" Red gave him a look that said his language was inappropriate before they launched into a discussion of whether Token could get them cool contacts with his Hollywood networks.

His groin still throbbing from his previous fantasy, Craig smiled behind his hand as he got an idea. Nonchalantly he touched Tweek's legs under the table with his foot – receiving a muffled "gyah!" and a glare in response. He glanced away as he ran his foot slowly up the blonde's twitching leg, knocking his knees open to rub the blonde's crotch with his Vans. Tweek's ears turned bright red at the contact as he swallowed back an obvious moan. Craig leaned onto his hand, glancing up at the blonde under his bangs coyly, wagging his brows suggestively. The flustered look on Tweek's face only added to his desire, flashing the idea through his mind of throwing him down on the table right here and now.

_Quit it, Craig, you're going to rip your pants if you get any harder from this_, he thought to himself. But god, what he wouldn't do to have those small, nervous hands of Tweek that steadied with experience wrapped around himself in the worst of ways. Jeez, he was going to have to take a trip to the bathroom before class if he couldn't get it under control.

Thinking what he was, Craig didn't notice the cafeteria get silent in waves from the front corridor toward their table at the back, that is until he noticed the look of shock on Tweek's face and the tears of happiness erupt in his caramel eyes. Slowly he turned toward the source of hushed whispers, mouth dropping open at the sight of the tall, lanky boy standing in the door way dressed in scuffed combat boots, baggy cargo pants, a green sweater rolled to the elbows to expose tanned olive skin, brown hair a spiky mess, a cocky smile narrowed in on _his_ blonde.

"Fuck," he uttered as Tweek jumped out of his seat and went running, stumbling awkwardly over his shoes, until he got close enough to jump, straight into the waiting arms of _him. _Clyde began a standing ovation that followed suit around the cafeteria between their classmates with hoots and hollars. Craig, on the other hand, glared in their direction, heart dropping at the joy written on _his_ blonde's face. Even Red was clapping happily for them as she tried to pull Craig up to his feet.

"Look how happy he is," she said with a smile, leaning on his shoulder. "I bet it's been a while since they've seen each other."

"Mmhmm," he agreed blandly, thinking it should have been a lot longer since he came back. He watched stormily, mood ruined as Christophe set Tweek back on his feet, a slight change of color to his face at all the attention they were garnering.

"Maybe we ought to return to your table, _oui_?" the boy said, ruffling his hair in embarrassment as the kids finally turned away and conversations started up again. Tweek, star-struck, could only nod in agreement as the French boy lead him through the throngs.

"Wh-what are you _doing_ here?" Tweek finally managed to say. Craig, glowering, had a similar thought, but he swallowed his distaste as the two friends sat down across from him.

"Muzza took a temporary teaching position 'ere at Denver Univairsity," he said bluntly, raising Craig's hopes that this really was a temporary occurrence. "We will be 'ere for the rest of ze term, maybe longer depending on if zey find a replacement. She zough I may also need to zee my friend."

"Why didn't you _tell_ me? I would have planned something!"

"I wanted et to be a surprise, Twitchy, and I can zee zat was successful," he said, the smile never escaping his lips. He turned toward the others at the table and tipped an imaginary hat in greeting. "Et ez good to meet you all, friends of Tweek. I am Christophe."

Token was the first to extend his hand to shake. "I'm Token Black," jacking a thumb at Clyde he said, "That's Clyde, the redhead is Bertha, but we all call her Red, and that is—"

"Craig," Christophe said with a nod, that shit-eating grin never wavering. "Oh I 'ave 'eard so much aboot you, _mon connard_. Et ez a pleasure finally to meet you."

The imploring look into Tweek's eyes wasn't enough to temper him. A straw from his milk between his lips, Craig couldn't help himself as he lifted both fist into his customary two-fingered salute. "How about you go fuck yourself, Christophe?"

As the boys shook their heads, not expected much less from Craig, and Red clamped her hand over her mouth disapprovingly, Craig grabbed his lunch tray and made his exit, slamming it down on top of the trash bin on his way out. Hands jammed into his pockets he cut around the corner, out the front door into the bitter October wind, and around towards the empty football field, thoughts jumbled all the way.

Why now, why would Christophe – his biggest competitor for Tweek's attention – show up now out of the blue? Why when he had just about sorted through his emotions, his turmoils, his internal war? How was he suppose to pry Tweek away from his long-lost friend long enough to explain himself, his feelings, give into his ultimatium?

Slamming his fist into the cold, hard metal of the bleachers, the Nommel boy pointed his fingers upwards toward the grey roiling sky. "Yeah, if this was a test of my nerve, you can go fuck yourself, God. This isn't fair."

Maybe it wasn't a test, he considered as he plopped down on one of the bleachers, the metal cold against his neck as he stretched out, hearing the recess bell for his lunch period on the wind. Watching the clouds roll and wave over each other, he bit his lip in thought. Maybe this was a perfectly timed warning, that he should back off and forget his place, remain with Red, ignore emotion he may have for Tweek. Fuck, would that be hard to do.

Maybe he could move and leave this town; Tweek wouldn't even notice, the way he lit up at the sight of Christophe. Sitting up, elbows on his knees, finger twined in his hair, he laughed to himself. Tweek never looked like that to see him, he either looked nervous, afraid, stubborn, unbending, irritated, but never star struck. All the years of being best friends, of holding back a geyser of emotion, he couldn't make Tweek look as happy as he did seeing that prick.

"Mother fucker, maybe I had it wrong," he said to himself, kicking the ground in redemption. This had to be proof that Tweek lied about loving Christophe, no one _not_ in love would be so simply astounded to see another person like _his _blonde was. But maybe Tweek wasn't his anymore. Maybe he had no claim on him afterall. Maybe, maybe, maybe, the situation was soaked too far in maybes for Craig to be anything but pissed.

"Are you planning on joining us at some time? Twitchy is worried at your absent," a gruff, nonchalant voice said, grating on Craig's nerves more than anything at that moment. He whirled around at the _clink_ of a Zippo lighter and watched as the boy inhaled a drag of his cigarette, blowing smoke his way, blue eyes staring at him knowingly.

"Yeah? If he was that worried, he would have come out himself. Get the fuck out of here, seriously dude, no one gives a fuck about you."

Christophe shrugged, throwing Craig his pack of cigarettes and lighter. Looking at the token distrustfully, he as well shrugged, shaking one out and lighting up as well. As the smoke filled his lungs and fell out between his chapped lips, Craig felt his nerves back off just a bit.

"'e wanted to come find you, but I could see et would not 'ave ended well. You were too tense, too 'ngry to have a 'appy conclusion. Zat ez why I volunteered. I can take an 'it ef you get 'ngry, but judging from Tweek's faded black eye, 'e probably could not right now."

"Fuck him too," Craig snarled, even though his muscles relaxed as the nicotine went to work. Christophe tsked, giving him a look that would have made a mild man blush.

"Yeah? Maybe ef you do, you wouldn't 'ave zis kind of problems." A laugh escaped as Craig looked away, freckles dark against the flush of his cheeks. "Oh? You already 'ave, I would guess. Zen what ez wiz ze jealousy?"

Craig threw the butt of his cigarette down and crushed it under his shoe, glowering under his bangs at the taller boy. "What, are you calling me gay you French faggot?"

Again the knowing laugh, unphased by any ridicule he could throw his way. "Craig, let me tell you somezing. Say whatever you will of me, but stop lying to yourself. Don't want to dmit et to _moi?_ Fine, but don't you 'urt that sweet boy in zere. And all you do by denying et is 'urt 'im. So get over yourself. All I am 'ere for ez Tweek's 'appiness."

"Don't worry about his happiness, okay, Christophe? It doesn't concern you. He's _mine_. So back off," he growled, shoving him back a step. Christophe merely leaned into the blow, not budging an inch, anticipating it. He shook his head, taking one last drag on his cigarette before flicking it into the dirt.

"No, Craig, ze red'eaded girl ez yours, which 'urts Tweek, ef you cannot read 'im. Maybe you should correct zat before putting claims on a person."

This time Craig put his weight into the blow, putting Christophe off balance for a second before side-stepping and righting himself. "He's mine, leave it the fuck at that, okay? Stay away from him, and stay away from me," he spat, stalking off in the opposite direction.

Unbeknonst to either of them, shy blue eyes watched the argument from behind the dividing wall to the school, red hair tucked gingerly behind pierced ears. Red shook her head, a sad smile on her face as the bell sounded on this chapter of her life.

...

The weeks following, Tweek was glued to Christophe's side like a puppy. They chatted about what had happened between them since they last spoke, learned new quirks about each other, as were inseparable by anyone's standards. Each day, Craig went by Tweek's house after school, and every day, he would be out with Christophe. Eavan would smile sadly, offer to leave a message, and hug him each time he would decline. It seemed like Craig wasn't even a blip on his radar anymore.

Which was fine for Craig, because instead of getting mad, he got even. If Tweek couldn't tell that it bothered him the attention he was paying the French boy, then he would do what he knew would cut Tweek deep. So while the blonde mooned over Christophe at lunch, Craig laced his fingers with Red and nibbled on her shoulders, kissing her passionately in the halls, keeping her close by his side on passing periods. Instead of being torn, he reveled in the flashing looks of pain from Tweek throughout the day.

Everyone seemed okay by the arrangements, especially as the Halloween party drew near. Red excitedly got together their costumes for the night, and spent an hour before D-day powdering his face and caking on foundation for the appropriately pasty teen-dream vampire look. To achieve the Cullen hair she sprayed temporary color in, tousled his hair with gel, and styled the messy look with her fingers. In tight-fitting bootcut jeans, a grey shirt, fangs in place and body-sparkle on, he would make any girl swoon. Even Red looked undone by his charm in her own Bella Thorn outfit.

They arrived early to help set up decorations with the other boys and girls. Bebe, hair a volumnous mess pulled back by a ribbon, went the leather-pants and cut off jacket look from Grease, while Clyde, hair slicked back, attempted muscles exposed by his rolled-up shirt, looked silly. Token's zombie makeup beyond the grave transformed him completely, and was sure to steal the show as he had already planned to waltz around in the shadows and scare the other students.

Much to all of their delights, Token's parents had left to give the kids their own space to have fun, while they went to a clubhouse party outside of down. Although the downstairs bar was locked, Kenny had eagerly showed up early with a few boxes of booze and the promise to be the best (and sexiest) bartender possible. To complete the promise he stripped himself of the ragged orange jacket and wore a nicely tailored suit with wing-tipped shoes, usual messy surfer-styled hair combed and styled away from his face, blue eyes shining mischievously.

Christophe had arrived early by himself, shocking everyone by being dressed as Marvel's Gambit. He grumbled something about "Tweek making him dress up" before delving into the task of sound equipment. By seven, most of the kids had already arrived and were dancing about together, drinks in hand. Red having danced off with the girls to do the Cha Cha Slide, Craig sat at the bar with a crown and coke in hand, swirling the liquid mix absently when he finally saw him. He cursed as his breath hitched in his throat as Tweek idly walked in, dodging people, trying not to touch anyone on his way around the perimeter of the makeshift dance floor. Dressed in a white button down, black slacks a little too big, boots with five buckles that reached his knees, white feathered wings around his shoulders, eyes rimmed in black coal, he looked amazing.

"Jeez, Tweekers dresses up good, huh Craig," Kenny said in his ear over the music, voice full of amazement. Ignoring him he downed the drink in hand, putting the cup back on the counter as he shoved upwards and started toward Tweek. Their eyes met and the blonde stopped dead, looking around as if trapped. Craig, feeling a buzz already swallowed the pang of guilt he felt, but continued until he was standing face to face to his own personal torment.

"You look good," he purred, a smile crossing his lips, flashing fake fangs. He reached up, running his knuckles down Tweek's flaming cheek. "Real good."

Wrinkling his nose and pulling slightly away, Tweek glared. "Have you been drinking? Is that why you're talking to me?"

"We're friends, am I not allowed to talk to you?"

Tweek took a step back, putting distance between them. "You haven't been a friend to me, Craig. Christophe has."

Before the argument could escalate, Red bounced over, cheeks flushed from dancing and whatever drink she was sipping on. She grabbed Craig's hand, smiling at Tweek, before gently tugging t it. "Come on, Craig! This is our jam, let's dance!"

As Craig let himself be lead away, Christophe seemed to materialize out of thin air, his look trained on Craig as he lead Tweek away from the hustle and bustle. Fuck them both, Craig thought as something he didn't recognize played over the sound system. Red seemed to know the song as she sang along with half the other girls, and surprised Craig by rubbing her bottom up against his groin suggestively, heavy-lidded eyes looking over her shoulder seductively. His anger dissipated as, against his will, his body reacted to the close-contact dancing and the alcohol pumping through him. Even though he would have rathered his blonde be the one rubbing inappropriately against him, he wrapped his big hands around her hips, letting a hand trail up her shirt to feel the skin-on-skin contact. He swayed and moved along with the bouncing crowd, taking a shot of something fruity that burned down his esophagus that appeared as Kenny slithered among the people, living up to his best bartender name.

As the song turned inward and burst over the crowd, Craig twirled Red to face him, hands at the small of her back, grinding against her with a slow, seductive smile of his own. He teased fake fangs across her skin, tongue dancing across her sweat-sheened skin, eliciting a small moan from her that cause his cock to stir. She seemed to notice as she pulled back, giving him a nervous, shy look as she squeezed him where he craved it most, almost undoing him right then and there.

Grabbing her hand and pulling it away from his crotch, he dragged her unceremoniously towards the stairs that lead up towards the bedrooms. It seemed they didn't go unnoticed, though, because trailing after them was a unanimous chant of "color lover, color lover, color lover!". Craig turned back at the landing and looked down once more before allowing himself to be dragged upwards, stopping dead for an instant as his slightly blurred vision found glassy, tear-stained coffee-colored eyes, a world of hurt spilling over from the broken glass within. He swallowed back his own emotion, mouthed _I'm sorry_, and turned his back on the one person he loved more than life itself.

...

Green glow stick and shimmering moonlight were the only illumination over the glassy waters of Terryall Creek. Christophe sat still, offering silence as Tweek down the last of his second beer, the first long ago forgotten on the foot path they followed. He nursed an almost-full can as he watched the blond tear the feathers angrily from his makeshift wings, ignoring the black streaks that streamed down his face from eye-liner that didn't hold up against the onslaught of tears that poured.

Christophe didn't know what pissed him off more, the blatant disregard Craig gave to his warning not to hurt Tweek, or the pained look he had seen in the black-haired boy's face when he saw Tweek at the bottom of the stairs. If he hurt so much by hurting Tweek, why did they continue the push-and-shove match between them? Why couldn't he just step off his thrown and lay his heart out to Tweek without the bullshit? Couldn't he tell Tweek was trying to replace his emotion with Christophe?

He sighed as Tweek finally plopped down on the hard ground, breathing heavy from his exertion at the task of mangling his costume. If only they both could swallow their pride and stop deviating what they felt. Shit, if he could see what they were doing, why couldn't they? He had sat back and watched all of the friends together, and the knowing looks passed between Clyde and Token said they knew it too.

"Feel better?" Christophe asked gingerly as he lit up a cigarette, looking sideways at his friend.

Tweek shrugged dejectly. "I don't know. I guess. I feel empty. I feel dizzy. I feel fuzzy inside."

"Zat's from the beer," Christophe said, amused, holding up his can in confirmation. "Et will do zat to you."

A nod was the response as he pushed his hair back from his face, throwing a rock out towards the lake. Black eye makeup had smeared down his face upon his hasty exit as he fought, and lost, to the emotion that had poured over at the sight of Craig going upstairs with Red. At knowing, through everything, he was just a prop when Craig needed him. And so, hating himself for it, Tweek let himself drink. And drink. And drink, until the tears dried up and the only thing he felt was numbness where the agonizing hurt had been.

"I don't get it, Christophe. Why does he do this?"

Christophe shrugged as he took a drag of his cigarette, calming his own nerves that wanted to turn around and beat the Nommel boy into oblivion. "If I knew, _mon cher_, I would fix et for you. Per'aps 'e ez jealous?"

Tweek wrinkled his nose in confusion. "Jealous? Why would he be jealous?"

Christophe looked at him knowingly. "Don't be daft, Twitchy. You 'ave been spending most of your free time wiz me. Maybe Craig feels slighted by my presence, _oui_?"

"He _knows_ it's not like that," he replied, shaking his head. "And if he gets jealous of me being with you, he should think how I feel when he's with _her_!"

Christophe watched as Tweek turned inward, thinking, and had a moment to consider that this assertive Tweek was a nice change….even if it was alcohol induced. Instead of making excuses, Tweek was finally seeing Craig as manipulative, with an agenda all his own. "So forget aboot 'im, Twitchy."

The blonde locked eyes with him sullenly, winding his hair between his fingers and pulling, a comfort measure for the frail, inebriated boy. "I wish it was that easy."

"You forgot aboot 'im when et was just us. You never 'ad zese lapses of turmoil zen. So forget aboot 'im and let 'im do what 'e wishes wiz ze red'eaded girl. You are better zen zis."

The blonde's ears turned red as his face flushed and he looked away – even though they kept no secrets, embarrassment was still easy to come by. "A lot has happened since then, Christophe. Then he just shut me out, now he's basically my b-b-boyfriend, just, on the side."

Christophe threw his cigarette down and crushed it under foot, slamming down the almost-full beer. He couldn't help Tweek if he wasn't willing to help himself, and it was frustrating to see his good friend so torn. "So decide whezer 'e ez worz et or not, Twitchy. Ez et worz draggin yourself zrough ze dirt? Like I said, you were fine when et was just us. Zere 'ad to be a reason for zat."

Coffee-colored eyes glittered in indecision as Tweek licked his lips, considering. He watched Christophe lean back on the stump, heels dug into the sand, face turned upwards to watch the stars overhead. Alcohol fogging his reasoning, he thought about that. Maybe there was something he wasn't willing to recognize between them.

"C-c-close your eyes, Christophe."

A steely gaze settled on the twitching boy. "What?"

"Close your eyes."

A brow raised, he shook his head. "Why?"

"Just close your eyes, damnit!" Tweek cursed, a frown forming. Amused, Christophe obeyed. He waited, and waited, seconds ticking by, and when he was about to say something he realized why his eyes were closed when Tweek smooshed his mouth against his, kissing him sloppily before retreating instants later.

Christophe swallowed hard, trying to comprehend what had just happened when he opened his eyes and saw Tweek hidden behind some shrubbery, face ablaze, half hidden by his hands. He knew he had to tread lightly, knowing if he said or did the wrong thing Tweek may not forgive him. Craig had already shattered the boy's heart, Christophe couldn't hurt him too.

Finally he settled with a light laugh and, "Well, ef zat ez ze way you kiss, no wonder Craig ez kissing someone else."

Christophe ducked as a rock was hurled at his head. "That's not nice! I kiss better! I was nervous!"

_Keep joking, Chris, maybe we won't 'ave to tread zis ground_, he thought to himself as Tweek huffed. "Well, I wouldn't know."

Poking his blonde head from behind the shrubs he asked, "Do you want to know?"

Damn. Maybe he wasn't getting out of this conversation. Christophe waved him over. "Come 'ere and tell me why you are kissing me in ze first place."

Shuffling his feet, eyes on the ground, Tweek approached slowly, knuckles knocking together nervously. He edged in front of the taller boy, but didn't look up. "I thought well m-m-maybe there was something between us like Craig and I have and if I kissed you maybe I would know or you'd feel it too and I don't know it seemed like a good idea and—_gyah_! This is too much pressure!"

Christophe raised Tweek's chin so he couldn't avoid looking at the French boy, callosed knuckles pushing away the nervous tears from the blonde's eyes. "And?"

"I-I-I don't know. Maybe? It's not like when Craig kisses me but maybe something was there? I don't know. It was kinda fast. D-d-don't hate me. I'm sorry. Don't hate me."

Dejectedly, the tears seemed to materialize and Christophe cursed himself for getting into this situation in the first place. For the first time he was at a loss of what to do; this wasn't normal Tweek behavior, this was inebriated, drunk Tweek talking, a Tweek he'd never dealt with before. But hurting his friend was absolutely not an option, so he did the one thing Craig never would be able to do—he sacrificed.

He kissed the tears out of Tweek's eyes, kissed the tears that fell down his cheeks, gingerly,shakingly, kissed Tweek on the lips, hoping maybe the blonde wouldn't remember this after sleeping off the alcohol. Not because he didn't like Tweek, he did, but not in this way, and not when things were so messed up with Craig. Making sure any sign of indecision was wiped from his face, he pulled back, hands cradling Tweek's wet cheeks as he laid his forehead against the blonde's.

"I will never 'ate you, Twitchy. Ef you remember nozing else, remember zat."

Tears glittering in those foggy, caramel eyes, as if he'd just heard the one thing he needed in life, Tweek's face went white a moment before he pulled back and puked unceremoniously on Christophe's steel-toed boots.

...

The thumping of the bass and music downstairs, mixed with the numerous drinks coursing through his veins, made the room pulsate like a living creature. LED candlelight, the moon streaming through gauzy floor-length curtains in one of the guest bedrooms added to the appeal of the sexuality in the room. Below him Red never looked more attractive than with a hicky on her throat, firey hair laying around her shoulders against the floral pattern of the bedset, lacey black bra stark against her alabaster skin, blue eyes mischievously sparking with lust, lips parted with each breath exhaled as he kissed low on her abdomen.

"God, Craig, I never knew you were like this," she said as his skilled fingers unsnapped her pants and pulled them roughly off. A pang cut him at every touch he laid on her, at every word she spoke as he pictured the burry face of _his_ blonde in his mind's eye.

"Me, either, babe. You sure aren't saying no for a good little Christian girl," he spoke, voice a low growl, trying desperately to shut away his extra feelings for Tweek. He stripped his shirt off, eliciting a catcall as he bared his pale, freckled abdomen and slender arms. Ignoring the roil in his stomach, he didn't fight as her black-painted fingers undid his jeans, rubbing against his groin in the process. He couldn't fight the groan that escaped his lips when she pulled his jeans around his thighs, exposing everything thanks to going commando, and wrapped her small hands around him, working slow at first, gaining confidence at each sound her work caused.

"Get you drunk and you turn dirty," he managed to say, focusing on those blue eyes, so different than Tweek's. He wished it was Tweek with his nervous, tremoring hands wrapped around him, wished it was Tweek he had to encourage to explore his body. Wished it was Tweek's loving eyes he was looking into, rather than these lusty blue ones.

_So let me take over then, Craig. You can enjoy it deep in your subconscious, and I will enjoy it with your body_, a familiar voice crooned, laced with dangerous intent. _You cannot stop now or she may question _where_ your loyalty is, and just who you like to fuck_.

Craig pushed Red back into the pillows, flashing his fake fangs as he kicked his pants the rest of the way off and slid her matching underwear from her slim hips. He saw double; in reality, he was removing her bra, kissing her breast, while he fell into his mind and saw the grey, monsterous bat-thing rubbing its all-male genetalia, scarlet eyes transfixed on Craig.

_You are hurting your other half, Craig_, his inner demon said, still stroking itself to no avail. In bed, Craig descended lower at the soft moans from Red, licking hipbone, kissing inner thigh, kissing wet womanhood. In his head, Craig curled in on himself, fingers digging deep into scarred and scabbed forearms, eyes burning with unshed emotion.

"_Go away! I know, I know, I KNOW! I don't know what to do, I never expected this, just leave me alone!" _he screamed to the inky blackness of his mind, ignoring the muted wet sounds of reality, the deeper, agonizingly feminine groans of pleasure.

_You should enjoy what you are doing, Craig. Let me help you with that,_ the voice purred closer than before. In reality, he was giving into the desperate pleas from Red, positioning himself between her shaking knees, driving himself in none-too-gently. But in his mind, the situation changed, and the person laying under him was Tweek, face flushed from desire, groaning his name passionately at each thrust.

"Oh, god, Craig, oh _God_!" he heard from two voices, _his _blonde underneath him, nails digging into his thighs, and in the background from Red, her actions from reality melding to what was going on in his mind.

"You like that?" he whispered huskily in both worlds, but it was Tweek's apple-scented shampoo he smelled as he buried his nose in the pillow, rhythm steady. The hitched breathing and moans into his shoulder was enough response for him.

_But you cannot enjoy it _too_ much, or there would be no fun for me,_ the monster purred directly into his ear, sending chills matching up his spine. In reality, there was no stopping his actions, because he was trapped in his mind now…but it wasn't Tweek under him. No one was under him – now, the sex with Red was mirrored by a separate image, a scene that dropped him to his knees, a sick feeling emptying his stomach as he watched Tweek moan his pleasure and his love to the tanned skin of Christophe. Tears now poured from Craig's eyes as his heart stopped, watching the two lovers finish with each other and whisper undying words of love amongst themselves.

The image changed to a scene of the two, older now, in a chapel, exchanging rings. _His_ Tweek, marrying someone else. _His_ Tweek, face aglow with delight and happiness. _His _Tweek, on his knees next to his wedding bed, receiving words of encouragement from a panting French boy as _his_ Tweek licked and sucked and smiled when Christophe's pleasure exploded.

In reality, red hair tangled between his fingers as he found handholds to go faster. In his mind his world turned upside down and there was nothing left – he ached all over, feeling like icy needles coursed with each beat of his heart, tearing him open from the inside out. Even knowing it was a trick played by the demon in his head, he couldn't control the amount of hurt at seeing Tweek look at anyone else with the same love on his face, that he looked at Craig with when he allowed himself to be honest with the boy.

_You do not think that is the worst of it, though, do you? Let me please you_, the voice growled, and the scene changed once more to mirror exactly what he was doing in reality. From the inky blackness materialized a red, satin-draped bed that he found himself laying on with those scarlet eyes looking down on him.

All he could do was grin sadistically, letting his cold, unfeeling side take over. He had been hurt enough through this little test of strength, nothing else could hurt as bad as the image of Tweek making love to Christophe. _"Come on, then. I won't be here all day,"_ he teased, letting the alcohol that swam through his veins in reality temper his edge in his mind. The monster exposed jagged teeth in a gruesome smile, shoving Craig's smiling face down into the silk while one set of claws ripped into his hips, one wrapped around his arousal, and the demon made Craig his victim. He howled in pain and pleasure at being on the reciving end until he was slammed back into his body in reality a moment later, his groans echoing Red's yells as he came forcefully, shuttering for a moment before rolling away, bending over the bed, and puking until there was nothing left but bile and shame.

...

He had awoken before dawn, head pounding, stomach a twisted knot when he saw the girl next to him. He had quietly gathered his wits, locked himself in the adjoining bathroom, and sat in the shower with the water on cold fullblast, puking until there was nothing left to give. He scrubbed his skin until it turned pink, scrubbed his scabs until they split and ran red on the white marble of the tub, scrubbed until the stinging turned numb. He got out, towel drying his hair limply, drying everything but his bleeding wrist and gazed halfheartedly into the mirror. His eyes were dull and sunken into his face, freckles stark against his pale skin, the bruised kisses on his neck dark purple. He slammed his fist into the marble of the countertop, the sharp pain from the bones crunching against the force turning numb instantly. He slammed his fist into the counter again, and again, and again, until tears sprung into his eyes and the pain stayed, throbbing lacing up his hands from his bruised and bloody knuckles. A sound escaped before he slid to the floor, burying his face into his hands, shoulders shaking as he sobbed.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," he echoed over and over. How could he let his revenge go so far? How could he have gone to bed with anyone other than Tweek? There was no way there could be forgiveness for this. There was no way they could recover from this. There was no way—

"Oh man, bro, you okay?" a voice whispered. Craig didn't even care if anyone saw him like this and looked up to the concerned face of Kenny standing by the door that connected with the hallway, hair a morning mess. "Jesus, it looks likes like you tried beating yourself up, dude."

"That'd be accurate," he replied, fingers stiff when he tried to move them. "Can you get me clothes from Token's room? I gotta get outta here."

Kenny didn't question him; Kenny was probably the only one that wouldn't have questioned him. Craig had made it to his feet, cleaned his knuckles up, wiped his face away of any tear tracks by the time the blonde had returned. He'd clasped Craig on the shoulder, wished him good luck, and retreated without needing any kind of explanation for his actions. Craig pulled on the offered clothes; basketball shorts, a long-sleeved black sweater that covered his neck markings, his own beat-up Vans, and his disgusting blue hat he'd discarded while getting ready the night before. He didn't care if his hair was still dripping wet, or that it would look like shit by the time it dried, he only cared about escaping the house before the girl with red hair woke up and noticed him missing.

There was one person he cared about finding, and if he guessed correctly, he'd be at Christophe's…he just hoped there was no truth in what his mind and imagined last night. The air was brisk, the sky lighting to the grey of predawn while the sun played around the mountain line. He followed the foot trails down along the bank of Terryall Creek, through the forest across an empty field , around Stark's pond, to the back side of the neighborhood the Mole lived in. He hopped the fence, wincing at using his hands, and crossed the back lawn of a little old lady whom lived diagonal to the DeLorne's. He didn't know what he would say, didn't know what he'd do, he just had to see Tweek, hold him in his arms, tell him it'd be okay.

What he didn't expect to see was the form of Christophe sitting on the banister of his porch, a cigarette between his lips, swinging his bare feet to some internal rhythm no one could hear.

"And look what ze cat dragged up. What do you want, Craig?" he asked, voice hushed as the morning birds started to stir.

"Is Tweek here?" he asked dryly, though he could hear the desperation soak through. Those intense grey eyes scanned him over, focusing on the bruised, swollen knuckles.

"You need to ice zose and keep working zem or zey will heal broken and cause your life a lot of pain," Christophe offered. "Wasn't worz et, was et?"

Craig didn't bother to respond. "Where's Tweek?" he asked again.

"I do not zink seeing him ez what ez best for 'im right now, Craig. Not after what you did."

"You have no idea what did or didn't happen," he snarled, cringing as he tightened his fists in anger. "Now let me se him."

Christophe crushed his cigarette into the ashtray on the banister and hopped down. Craig wasn't ready when the French boy pulled the collar of his sweater down to expose his bruised neck, or for the knee that slammed into his ribs, dropping him to the ground as the air was knocked plum out of him. He had no fight in him when Christophe pulled his head up to look him in the pained, green eyes.

"You cannot bullsheet a bullsheeter, Craig. I know as well as you do zat you got your dick wet last night. And I zought I 'ad warned you about 'urting Tweek. Can you not understand English?"

"You sure you speak English?" was all Craig could manage. Hate flared in Christophe's eyes, but all he did was shove him back on his rump and take a deliberate step back.

"I could beat you into a pump, beat you until zere is nozing left, and still, I do not zink you would understand. I zink ze punishment ez you beating yourself up over your actions."

Craig wanted to say something in return but stopped when he saw the front door open and Tweek step out, hair a mess, rubbing sleep and exhaustion out of his eyes. Even Tweek looked pale and worse for the wear, making Craig wonder if he had drank anything last night. He stopped dead, coffee eyes widening just a tad at seeing Craig on the ground with Christophe standing menacingly over him.

"W-w-what's going on with you two? What are you doing here Craig? _Gyah_, you better not be fighting!" he said weakly, trying to look stern but failing miserably.

Craig pushed himself to is feet, ignoring the throb of his hands. "I needed to see you. Can we go somewhere to talk?"

Tweek looked uncertain as he passed a look between Christophe and himself, but gave a brief nod as he ducked back inside. Christophe grumbled something rapid in French under his breath as he walked back up the porch, guarding his front door. He watched numbly as Tweek came out pulling a jacket on and was stopped as Christophe whispered something to him and kissed her cheek, turning a flushed shade of pink. Craig counted to ten as Tweek feebly waved at his friend, that stood glowering solemnly, watching their departure unhappily.

They walked in silence a few feet apart, their shoes on the concrete mixing with the awakening sounds of the morning birds the only sounds between them. Craig could feel his friend's eyes on his back, could feel the tension building between them at every cross street they passed. He didn't know what to expect, really, didn't know what was in store for them after this. Swallowing back the fear, wanting at least one good last memory if things went south, Craig reached his hand out, stiffly wrapping his fingers around Tweek's, answering the shocked look with a smile.

"B-b-but someone will see us!" Tweek protested, trying to pull his hand from the vice-grip of the Nommel boy, knowing Craig wouldn't like anyone thinking he was gay. He recalled the last time they had held hands in the fog of a school morning, being told _he didn't mean any of it_. That was just a few short months ago, but it seemed like an eternity.

"I don't care, Tweekers. Not right now," he answered, squeezing the small hand in his, cringing at the movement. Seeing the shade of pink that crept of Tweek's face, butterflies erupted in Craig's stomach, followed by a wave of nausea from guilt. They walked in silence side by side to the park and through the painted red fence of their childhood, around the small man-made pond with the fountain in it, through the separate gate around the playground, across the rubber mulch, and up the metal ladder of the playground. Without a word they crawled through the plastic tunnel to the "meeting ground", a plastic red bubble that separated off toward the tallest slide, and another taller landing. Clear windows that looked out over the rest of the playground had made this area their spaceship in the days of spacemen.

Craig leaned up against one of the bubbled windows, and fought back a laugh at Tweek's wild hair from the static of the plastic tunnel and meeting area they sat in. The blonde tried to glare, but couldn't seem to make his anger apparent as he gazed out one of the plastic windows, watching dawn creep slowly, thanks to the mounting clouds rolling in.

"Why'd we come here?" Tweek asked when he finally turned toward Craig. He grabbed Tweek's wrist and ran his fingers over a sharp, rough area of plastic that felt….carved. Curiously, Tweek leaned in to see what it was, and sat back, eyes wide when he saw _CN & TT BFF_ carved clumsily into a heart with block-like, childish handwriting. "W-w-when?"

"When we were fighting, after you left for home school, I would come here when I wanted to go away and think and feel like we were still close. It helped remind me of the good times," he replied, watching Tweek's reaction, trying to swallow the sick feeling he felt, knowing by now Red would have to be awake. "Were you drinking last night?"

Tweek nodded, ducking his gaze as he pulled at his hair nervously. "You've been ignoring me for _her_. You promised you would fix things and it never happened. I was mad. I was upset. And it didn't help seeing you there with her."

"You were ignoring me for _him_," Craig countered sourly, pushing his hair out of his face grimly. "I would go to your house, and you would be gone. You were never there when I needed you. You were always with Christophe."

Tweek seemed to shrink into himself, drawing his knees up to his chest, pulling his hood over his unruly hair, hiding his face in his hands. He groaned. "I…I have a confession, and you're going to be mad and kill me and bury my body where no one can find it and no one will know and it's awful and oh my god—"

Craig smiled at the incessant paranoia, feeling like his Tweek was back, but a seed of fear grew in him. He pulled Tweek's hands down and stared into those apologetic coffee-colored eyes. "I won't be mad at you. Now what's up?"

"I kissed Christophe."

Craig was expecting worse, but his stomach still dropped at the words. "You did what?" he asked calmly.

That did it. Tweek pulled away, tears stinging his eyes as he jumped into an explanation that rolled off his tongue without any pause. "IwasdrunkandupsetandthoughtmaybeIcouldforgetyouif IdidsomethingwithsomeoneelseandIkissedhimandandnad —"

"Shhh, Tweekers, slow down. Start again."

Tweek took a breath, and another, and another, feeling like this was his worst offense ever, and that he had a one-way ticket to Hell. "You upset me and I left with Christophe and had a few drinks and was by the creek and he told me I should forget about you and I told him it wasn't that easy and he reminded me I forgot about you just fine when we were homeschooled and I thought maybe there was a reason and that maybe I do like Christophe and I kissed him and he kissed me and—"

"He kissed you." It was a statement rather than a question and Tweek's face went pale when he was the look on Craig's face.

"I-I-I don't know. I think, maybe, but it could have just been me and…I'm sorry Craig."

The Nommel boy shrugged. How could he be mad over a kiss, when his own offense was much, much worse? And still, he was murderously furious…not at Tweek, though, but at the smug French bastard that had been hiding _his_ blonde from him and made a move on _his _blonde. "The question is, did you feel anything by it, Tweek?"

The blonde looked close to crying. "I don't know, maybe, but I think I would have been happy swimming in a pool of Jell-O at the time, and you know how much I hate Jell-O. I don't know," he managed weakly, voice tapering to a whisper. "I'd have to do it without alcohol to tell you."

The _tink tink tink_ above them let them know the rain had started, slow and gentle, but inside their plastic cacoon they were safe. Craig's obvious answer was to sit up on his knees, head bent to avoid smacking the top of their cavern, hands on either side of Tweek's head against the wall, and kiss him. Unlike the chaste kiss from Christophe, Craig kissed deeply, teeth grazing his chapped lips, tongue tasting the bitterness of last night's alcohol. He kissed Tweek until they had to pull away to breathe, and clear green eyes filled with something unreadable looked down at Tweek's flushed face, a small smile playing his lips. The pulse in Tweek's neck jumped, his breath hitched faster as Craig leaned his forehead against the blonde's, just barely applying pressure, not letting _his_ blonde escape this.

"Did you feel _that_ with Christophe?" he asked gently.

"N-no," Tweek stammered around his heart in his throat, the sensitive side of Craig undoing him at the stitches. But he knew from experience of being burned how easy it was for this moment to turn under the watchful eyes of their peers. "But I don't want to be hurt again, Craig. I don't want to be pushed away, pushed under a rug like a pile of dirt when someone shows up unexpectedly."

The sick feeling again. Craig leaned back on his heels and swallowed back the bitter taste of bile that seemed to materialize in the back of his throat. Oh, god, how could he tell Tweek without dragging his insides through a meat grinder? He had lied enough to Tweek over the years, and he couldn't, wouldn't lie to him here in this place of solace he had made for himself. He laughed mentally to himself at that, considering maybe that's why he had brought Tweek here after all – because it was one place, he knew he would never lie to his torment.

"I, too, have a confession," he started, pulling his hat down his forehead instinctfully, causing his bangs to sweep in front of his eyes. He knew what he said next would ruin everything, and all he could do was build a wall around his heart feebly and steel himself against the backlash of his drunken stupor. "I fucked Red."

He didn't look up, couldn't look up and see Tweek's reaction. He didn't want to know the disgusted, hurt look that had to be there. So he was surprised when, behind a muffled sniff he heard, "…I know."

He looked up then and hated himself all over at the sight of Tweek curled up on himself, face buried in his knees, shoulders shaking silently. He balked, digging nails into his hands, ignoring the biting pain of skin breaking, ignoring throbbing, broken knuckles, not knowing how he could comfort the boy before him, didn't know if it was even his right to because he had made this hurt real. He wanted to walk off the nearest bridge to his death if it would stop the muffled sniffling emitting weakly from beneath the hood of his friend.

"I'm sorry," was all he could manage as he slid down the plastic tube into the rain, hit the ground, and hurled. His vision tunneled, his world collapsed in on itself as he ran without a destination in mind, ran to escape the haunted image of Tweek, standing at the top of the playground a hand reaching out in his direction.

...

On Monday, no one dared to mention the events at Token's – as he proclaimed proudly, his house was like Vegas. Red sat with her friends at the girl's table in the absence of Craig, Christophe and Tweek acted like mere friends, and the steady rain outside was projected to be the reason for the children's dower moods. Tweek worried about his missing friend and called each morning and night that he missed of school, and was informed each time by a cheery-enough Ms. Nommel that Craig was resting miserably in bed with a high fever and strep. It still didn't make him any less worried, knowing what Craig was capable of without constant supervision.

On Wednesday, a mysterious letter made its way into Tweek's locker, written in a flowy, round script that merely said "_I'm sorry, it shouldn't have happened, I hope you can forgive it and forgive him_". When he had showed Christophe, the French boy had merely shrugged, thinking it had probably ended up in the wrong locker and was meant for someone else, but by the intelligent, guarded look in his grey eyes Tweek thought otherwise.

He didn't have the time to decipher the message, though, because by Thursday Craig had returned, looking gaunt and exhausted, nose chapped and red, a box of tissues carried idly at his side, hat pulled as low as possible, hood thrown over that, as if he was cold. Cartman had made a move to ask about the party at lunch while Craig had laid his head unceremoniously on the table to avoid looking at food, and got one word in before – surprisingly enough – Christophe had slowly stood up, deadly gaze trained on the fat boy, who turned tail and ran without warning. When cornered about the interference, Christophe had shrugged and said, "'e doesn't look well enough to fight 'is own battles right now."

Class after lunch was English with Ms. Mendal, where they had been practicing prose and reading different pieces of literature all week, as well as sharing a piece to the class they had written. Today's pieces were to be read by Wendy, Esther, Kyle, and Craig…at the last name picked from a hat, Tweek had glanced across the room to the Nommel boy slumped over his desk, face hidden in his arms, looking dead, much less ready to read a piece of homework to the class.

While Wendy read her sonnet about equality between all living species, Tweek couldn't help but watch Craig whom didn't seem to move, and wondered if he was really as sick as he seemed, or if maybe it was an emotional sickness that ate away at him. Tweek had known the moment Craig went up the stairs at Token's the intentions he had had with Red. He knew that night, while he was at the creek with Christophe, what was going on back in that satin-draped room. But hearing it from the nasally voice he loved that dripped ache and sorrow had been something different, had solidified the ounce of doubt he had harbored. And it had hurt knowing Craig could share the same thing he did with Tweek that he did with Red. It hurt…but not enough to erase what he felt for Craig, not enough to cause him not to worry about the gangly boy he still thought of as his best friend.

Esther lamented surrealistically about an unnamed object next, and under the watchful eye of Christophe in the back of the class, he scribbled on a bit of scrap paper _Are you okay? _and chucked the rolled-up ball at Craig's unmoving head. The raven-haired boy simply unraveled the wad of paper in the cavern of his hood, shook his head as response, and returned to laying in the circle of his arms.

Kyle poetically read about politics and social classifications and the demoralfication of today's youth as Tweek stared at Craig, ignoring the trained look of the Mole that watched him like a guard dog. On another scrap paper he scrawled _What's wrong? I still care, you know. Maybe more than you want _and, glancing another direction, tossed the paper at Craig with perfect precision. Again, he pulled the paper open in the shelter of his hood, but this time tired green eyes met his for a moment, and Tweek had a moment to wonder if the glassy look was from tears before he turned away again, resting his head back on his desk.

When Craig's name was called next, the only thing that moved was an arm that held up a beat up spiral-bound notebook, and a hooded blonde that bounced over to grab it cheerfully. Ms. Mendal didn't seem to mind as Kenny made his way to the front of the classroom and showed her the work in question to prove it was Craig's homework, written in pointed small writing, rather than Kenny's bubbly girlish writing.

"Hi guys!," he started, tipping an invisible hat only he could see. "As we all know, Craigers over there is dying before our very eyes and isn't up to reading, what with his gross throat and what not. So I volunteered before hand to be the joyful voice of his wonderfully dedicated piece of prose, written in the throes of flu! Dedicated, man. Anyway, here goes!

_Sometimes I wonder why I stay; we can't be together, but we stumble to stay apart_

_Those eyes that spill over in emotion may be my biggest torment_

_Those eyes that plead with caramel sugar may be my biggest savior._

_Each moment caught in a web of oblivion, I wonder, and I doubt, and I sway, and I choose._

_Each day it gets harder to pretend it doesn't hurt; each day it gets easier to know._

_And I look to the stars, at something we both share no matter where we are, and I know;_

_that this body I hold that is not yours doesn't make me who I should be_

_and these hands I hold cannot be complete._

_Because through the blackness of doubt and shame, you walk in with your shy smile_

_And I can't help but stay, because there is one thing that makes me complete_…"

Kenny looked up at the author, still, face hidden, seeming to be unmoved at hearing his prose read aloud. Licking his thumb he turned the page and paused, making an executive decision as he wiped his thumb across the last word, a name, smearing the black gel ink to something unreadable. "Well boys and girls, let's give it up for Craig, who apparently is deeper than we all would have guessed!"

"Tweek," a muffled voice echoed under the hood, spoken soft though the hoarseness was evident. Craig looked upon, his green eyes seemed haunted as he stared at Kenny. The blonde at the front of the room just shook his head as the class turned to Craig to see what he had to say after a day of being mute. "You didn't finish it, Kenny."

"You don't really want to do this right now, do you?" the blonde seemed to plead to his sick friend. "You're not feeling quite right, buddy."

Tweek watched the exchange worriedly, a sick feeling in his stomach that had been building since the first word had spilled out of Kenny's mouth. Christophe, too, had seemed to understand where it was going and stared at Craig, who seemed unphased by anyone.

"You can't take et back once you say et, Craig. Want those consequences now while you feel so sheety?"

A devilish grin akin to the Cheshire cat spread of Cartman's face as the light bulb clicked in his brain. "Oh-ho, no, guys, let's let Craig finish where he was going. Don't discourage such a wonderful author!"

The French boy growled low in his throat as he trained the best assassin eyes he had on the fat boy. Kenny, too, glared in his friend's direction. By now, half the class either put the pieces together vaguely, or were looking around with confusion evident.

"D-d-don't egg him on, he doesn't feel good," Tweek squeaked from his seat, surprising everyone around him. Craig turned to look at him, pain flaring across his face at the comment. He smiled sadly, mouthed _I'm sorry_ and finished the last line by heart.

"_And I can't help but stay, because there is one thing that makes me complete…Tweek_."

* * *

**A/N:** I want to remind people of a few things - yes, I am writing an adult story with children that are 11/12. I know the actions and content do not match the grade level they are in. _I know, for real_. I want to remind everyone that E86 also doubles as a commentary about today's youth doing things younger and younger than in my day, it's not kiddie porn or intended to be porn in any way. I could have set them up to be in high school - but, 1) that would have left a LOT of years to cover, considering the start of this they were in elementary school and 2) it wouldn't have reflected on society as much and/or contributed the "wow" factor as much.

Second, yes I am updating again for some crazy reason. I am unsure why this story is still going, because each time I revisit it and sit down to write, the story changes and I have to throw out the whole chapter's concept. The ending of this chapter, I was not on board with until it happened, and a lot I wanted to input into the chapter got dumped. Apparently writing is not as organized as it was when I was 16. Darn.


End file.
